For Your Entertainment
by Starcrier
Summary: The Maestro of Bane's Gotham is known for her perfect pitch, no-nonsense attitude, and has a tongue sharper than a serrated knife, all useful qualities to possess when one is leading a rebellion of teenagers. But when her actions catch the eye of the Master of Fear himself, will this be The Maestro's last bow? Blake/OC/Crane.
1. Prologue

**For Your Entertainment**

_Holy water cannot help you now  
A thousand armies couldn't keep me out  
I don't want your money  
I don't want your crown  
See I've come to burn  
Your kingdom down_

_Holy water cannot help you now_  
_See I've come to burn your kingdom down_  
_And no rivers and no lakes, can put the fire out_  
_I'm gonna raise the stakes; I'm gonna smoke you out_

_Seven devils all around you_  
_Seven devils in my house_  
_See they were there when I woke up this morning_  
_I'll be dead before the day is done_

_Prologue_

Screams.

Years from now, in her darkest moments, the girl cowering beside her mother on the street will remember those screams, those cries of anguish that sound as though every shred of hope is being ripped from their soul. The noise echoes in her sensitive ears; it's harmonious and dissonant all at once, throwing her thoughts in a tailspin.

Needless to say, it's not pretty.

She's not sure when it begins, exactly, but when it does it's mortifying. One minute she and her mother are hurrying home from the drugstore – it was never a good idea to be out in the Narrows after dark – the next they're hearing screams and explosions and her ears are ringing with the noise. White mist fills the air and her mother has the presence of mind to tell her to hold her shirt to her nose and mouth before doing so herself. Being only twelve, the girl doesn't know what the mist is or why it's there but what she does know it's that it's terrifying, fogging the air and dimming the already flickering streetlights.

That's when she starts seeing things.

Horrible, awful, terrible things.

Things that make her head spin and her stomach heave, and, before she knows it, she's retching on the street; the images of skin melting off the faces of passers-by and maggots corrupting their bodies fill her vision, even when she squeezes her eyes closed.

She imagines, just for a second, that this is what hell is like.

Her flight reaction kicks in and she runs without thinking, and the sound of her mother's voice calling her name, calling her to come back, is lost amid the chaos of the screams surrounding her and the pounding of her own racing heart.

She tries not to scream, because it's not real – it can't be real, these things she's seeing are impossible and it has to have something to do with the mist in the air. But with each passing second the panic mounts; with each moment, the fear threatens to send her over the edge.

The fog is distorting her vision and making her head spin; nothing is making sense. She stumbles suddenly, running smack against the corner of a building and she smells blood when her hand slides over the wickedly sharp edge of a broken drainpipe.

She does not scream.

Fear fills her stomach as a massive horse bounds out of the ever-thickening mist around her. Atop the horse sits a figure - a figure with a face crawling with worms and breathing black smoke, and his mouth and eyes are stitched closed. The horse rears, whinnying in nightmarish fashion, and flames dance out of it's nostrils.

She can't help it then.

She screams. Long and loud, shrieking for her mother who has disappeared, shrieking as she stumbles in the opposite direction. The sound tears along her throat, burning her vocal chords and making her choke.

She does not know it then, but she will lose her voice for days after this.

There is garbled laughter behind her, grating on her ultra-sensitive ears, and then the thunderous sound of hooves on pavement in pursuit.

She does not scream again, merely cries as fear takes over every rational part of her brain and her vision clouds even more, as her worn tennis shoes pound on the pavement beneath them. The nightmare behind her is toying with her now, moving the horse at an almost leisurely trot because he knows he will overtake her.

He's not wrong, because she trips, sending her stumbling and making her forehead crack against the pavement.

She cries out, head spinning, and rolls onto her back.

The horse and his rider are very close, so close she can see the bloody nails imbedded at grotesque angles in the hooves and smell the stench of rotting meat that the animal carries. The rider is shouting something, something about fear and it's power, but his voice is so distorted it is impossible to distinguish the sounds.

The horse rears suddenly, and she squeezes her eyes shut because she knows when it lands, it will be on her.

Except, it doesn't happen that way.

There is a buzzing sound and a strangled cry, followed by the sound of hooves galloping away. Cautiously, she opens her eyes to see a woman standing over her, something that looks like a taser in hand, looking just as hideous as the others. But the nightmare and his horse are gone, and she allows herself a moment to breathe.

The woman's voice is gentle on her delicate ears, and she tells her everything is going to be okay as she helps her up and presses her close. There is already a little boy with her, younger than she and just as terrified, but he's clinging to the woman as well so she must be someone safe.

The woman strokes her hair lightly and whispers soothing affirmations, but her eyes dart all around and the girl knows she is ready for another attack at any moment.

They didn't have to wait long.

Three men emerged from the shadows, with faces like demons and their bodies dressed in bright orange suits. One of them is holding a knife as he cautiously approaches, a wicked leer on his grotesque features. The woman, whom the girl presumes to be an angel of death - for a death angel is the only one who could look so decayed and yet protect someone else - presses them both close and tells them not to look as she snags a gun from the body of a rotting, maggot-ridden police officer lying nearby.

The girl, having already seen far more than her share of insanity that night, willingly complies.

There is a second of mortal terror as the woman above her shouts at the demons not to come any closer. Judging by the sound click of a gun being cocked, they didn't listen. Later, she would reflect on the stupidity of demons who did not listen to death angels.

She tells them not to look once more, and the girl covers her hypersensitive ears in preparation for the gunshot she knows will be coming.

Except, it doesn't happen that way.

There is a grunt, followed by another, and another, and the girl looks up to see a dark angel, dressed head to toe in black, wrapping his wings around them and lifting them off the ground to the safety of a nearby bridge.

The girl had never felt more safe than she had in that moment, wrapped in the angel's wings and breathing in the scent of danger and protection - the most volatile of contradictions.

And then they are on solid ground again, and the boy is telling the death angel, the woman, how he'd known the dark angel would come. The newcomer looks at him a moment, and the barest flicker of a smile flits over the unshadowed portion of his face.

But then he looks to her, and his gaze – _brown, nearly black in the poor light_ – seems to stare straight into her soul. In the middle of all the chaos, in the midst of all the terror, he takes the time to stop what he is doing, and _look_. Not only does he look, but he cares. He puts so much interest into a single expression that it takes her breath away. No one, with the obvious exception of her mother, has ever looked at her with so much concern, especially not when they were busy.

There is dialogue between the two angels after this; the girl isn't quite listening so much as she is studying the outline of her savior. She commits him to memory, in case he never appears to her again, but she knows he will. From what little she knows about guardian angels, she understands they have a habit of sticking around. And she knows that what he is – a dark guardian.

And, as the mist rose steadily around them and the dark angel flew off into the night, she knows his image will be a part of her for the rest of her life.

She wasn't wrong.

**A/N: Okay, just a warning for those of you following my _Sherlock_ fics: I am not abandoning them! This is just an idea of mine that I've had swimming around in my head for the last few days. I'm excited about it, and I hope you are too. Also, this will only loosely follow the events of the story; unlike my _Sherlock_ fic I will not be following the script. **

**I don't own this, and the song belongs to Florence and the Machine. :) **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	2. The Maestro

**For Your Entertainment**

_Tonight  
We are young  
So let's set the world on fire  
We can burn brighter  
Than the sun _

_The world is on my side  
I have no reason to run  
So will someone come and carry me home tonight  
The angels never arrived  
But I can hear the choir  
So will someone come and carry me home_

_Tonight_  
_We are young_  
_So let's set the world on fire_  
_We can burn brighter_  
_Than the sun_

_Chapter I_

_The Maestro_

I gazed out the streaked window of the condemned apartment building I had taken up residence in, looking over the grey, seemingly lifeless remains of my city.

Gotham had fallen.

This didn't come as a surprise to me; after the Batman disappeared, I knew it was only a matter of time. I just hadn't thought it would happen so _fast_. Gotham had been in this state for about a month now, and the body count escalated by the day.

Where was my dark angel now?

Don't get me wrong; I didn't blame the Batman for vanishing when he did, because I'd known, somewhere deep down, that he'd never left. I knew, even though he no longer patrolled, that he was still out there, watching, waiting, prepared to step in when the war started again.

And, contrary to what all the pompous bureaucrats that used run the city believed, the war hadn't been over. We were just in the eye of the storm, in that moment of relative peace right before the worst part hit.

And it did.

Hard.

So where was our hero?

With a firm set of my jaw, I picked up my Stradivarius, resting on a stand in it's position of honor in the far corner, and began to play violently; my eyes occasionally flicked over the bat silhouette tattoo on the inside of my left wrist when it would come into my line of vision.

I never believed that crap about the Batman being a murderer; I was his Advocate, after all. The Joker was the real killer, and he was the one behind all those deaths, no matter who pulled the trigger. In our foolish city's desperation to believe the worst of it's hero, to deny that anyone could be so _good_, good to their very core, they took away it's only hope.

I was the one who did something about that. Allow me to explain.

Since they found my mother dead after the attack on the Narrows, almost nine years ago now, I had lived on my own. My father wasn't in the picture, never had been, and my mom had no living relatives, so I learned to take care of myself.

I was on my own, pickpocketing and conning my next meal day after day, learning new skills that made me a ghost; a shadow on the streets. However, I never stole from people who couldn't afford it.

Eventually, I ran into two kids, a boy and a girl, unrelated and both two years younger than me. They had been living on the streets for far longer than I had, and went by the aliases Jazz and Savvy, respectively. So, even though I was older, I followed their lead and became the best little thief I could be.

It took me two weeks to finally tell them my name.

I was Maestro.

Now, don't misunderstand, that isn't my real name. I have a normal one, of course, but it hasn't been used in so long I fear it no longer applies to me, not to mention it bears little real relevance to this story in particular. I chose it then because I was something of a musical prodigy, with perfect pitch and the ability to learn to play any instrument by ear, with a knack for composing in my free time. Together, the three of us made it on our own, becoming inseparable. They were the only ones I was really loyal to.

I was thirteen by the time the Joker was finally caught and taken to Arkham Asylum, on an insanity charge that he swore was unnecessary during the entire trial.

He wasn't crazy, remember?

But I was outraged by the declaration that the city's dark angel, _my_ dark angel, was wanted for the murders of several people - several people I _knew_ he hadn't killed. I was present when Commissioner Gordon took down the bat signal with an ax, and the sight of it had made me burn with rage. Worse still, the Batman completely disappeared, confirming everybody's ridiculous suspicions.

That was when I became _The_ Maestro, the Batman's Advocate. Jazz and Savvy, who were also both crushed by the news, agreed to help.

It wasn't anything big at first. Just graffiti on the walls where people could see it, (Savvy was a spectacular artist; the girl could literally draw anything) and each time it featured a bat in some way, flying in to rescue his city, and a few lines of song that I had written was trailing in his wake.

And then, when I was sixteen, the Scarecrow escaped from Arkham and simply vanished without a trace.

Allow me to explain the significance of this.

The Scarecrow, otherwise known as Dr. Jonathan Crane, was the one responsible for the attack on Gotham that had left my mother dead. He had created a fear toxin and placed it in the water supply, and then caused it to evaporate, so when you breathed it in, you saw things like demons and horses breathing fire and faces made of worms. It had been all over the news for weeks afterwards.

I was furious, even more so than when the Batman was declared to be Harvey Dent's murderer. I demanded that we up our game to stop men like him from hurting other people, and, amazingly, we managed it.

I was suddenly snapped out of my reverie by the sharp squeak of my violin hitting a grotesquely wrong note out of distraction and winced as the note grated on my hypersensitive ears. I gave a bitter laugh at the deeply serious look on my face in the reflection of the window in front of me, reminded of days when finding my next meal was all that mattered. It seemed so long ago now.

We had all been so young then; Jazz and Savvy were only fourteen at the time, and, even though they'd been the ones to teach me how to live that lifestyle, I became their leader. We trained ourselves to fight, and, though none of us were masters, we each learned how to hold our own against a fully grown man.

The first time, we stopped a mugging in a back alley, tying the pair of assailants up with piano wire (no one said we had to be merciful about it) and drawing the bat symbol with music notes in his wake on their foreheads, signed "The Maestro". Before this, I had never experienced such a feeling of... _rightness_. I knew then that this was what I was supposed to be doing.

Gradually, other street kids wanted in, and, though I was against it from the beginning, Jazz and Savvy pleaded their case with me for days until I consented. I don't trust easily, and I was suspicious of everyone but my two companions. But they came, and I learned how to use everyone's strengths to help our cause. No one older than me was allowed in; whatever age I was at the time, that was the limit. Gradually, we were ten strong, then fifteen, and then twenty.

Thus, The Young was born. We were musically-themed vigilantes, except we didn't kill. Ever.

And, right up until Bane sacked Gotham, we were still relatively small, though renowned. I had donned a mask and announced myself as "The Maestro" to the public. It was my job to create soundtracks to play during our patrols so we could stay in sync with one another, as well as mastermind the operations. Jazz and Savvy were my lieutenants; Jazz was the techie and a brilliant one, handy when it came to essential devices like speakers and microphones, and Savvy, as I mentioned before, was our artist.

When we saw the Batman again, for the first time since the Joker, I was ecstatic. I'd known he hadn't left us, I'd just known. When I heard he was back, I was ready to either pledge allegiance to his cause or disband The Young, should he demand it. This city was his to protect; we had merely been the babysitters.

But then he disappeared again. Bane claimed to have killed him, but I refused to believe that. I just couldn't.

That was the day things changed.

Majorly.

Up until Bane took over, it was merely about being the Batman's advocates. We were small, but we got our point across: the Batman was right about the city, and we were here to finish what he started.

But now things are different. Now, we are his messengers.

See, when Bane took over, he eliminated everyone he saw as a threat: the Batman, the mayor, the police, and even Commissioner Gordon, though I'd heard he'd been unsuccessful on that end.

But he made one very, very, _very_, significant mistake.

What he didn't take into account was that, on the day he sacked the city and civilians and prisoners alike began killing each other on the streets, he created orphans. A_ lot_ of orphans. _Teenage_ orphans.

What Bane didn't understand was that teenagers are rebellious by nature; all it takes is someone to come along and channel that rebellion into something that can be harnessed for good, and viola, you've got a resistance.

Enter The Maestro: Rebel and Musical Prodigy Extraordinaire.

After all, who wants to open-fire on a bunch of kids still in high school or even younger? I imagined even Bane would have his qualms, maybe not very many, but his finger might still hesitate on the trigger. And that split second of indecision could very well mean the difference between salvation and doom for this city.

The day Gotham fell, teenagers swarmed my court, demanding to join our cause. My lieutenants and I weeded them out slowly, no one who was out for blood, (that one was a deal breaker for a lot of them; there were so many who wanted revenge) no one younger than twelve because they would be a liability, and no one older than me, nineteen, was allowed in. The rejected either went back to their ransacked homes or joined another resistance. Everyone else, and there were heartrendingly many, were divided according to their skill set and placed where they would be the most useful. Many of them were weak (Gotham was a wealthy city, or had been at least, and many of these kids were strangers to hardship) but not all of them were, and none of them were useless. Any skill, from stitching to singing (useful for a musically-themed rebellion) was utilized.

What had once been a band of twenty was now a band of nearly two hundred. We were The Young.

And I was their Maestro.

**~DKR~**

The air was perpetually cold now that it was late fall, which was fitting, I suppose, for the circumstances.

My boots made no sound on the concrete as I walked, and I was grateful for the mask, white and gold, streaked with lines of music, that shielded the majority of my face from the wind.

It was a long walk from my abandoned apartment to The Maestro's Court, The Young's base of operations, but it was worth it to gain a little privacy. Only Savvy knew where I disappeared to at night; everyone else went to their own hidey-holes, but I, an intensely private person, needed space.

About two blocks away from my court, I began to feel that tingly sensation that comes with the territory of being watched. And there, on the rooftop in front of me, was the sound of the faintest scuffing of a shoe on concrete, something only I, with my sensitive ears, would be able to hear from so far away.

I paused, listening intently. There was another scuffle, then silence.

Knowing these were my lookouts, I continued on. If they ever saw an enemy, like Bane's lackeys or anyone equally bothersome, they were to whistle a specific tune to the next lookout, and on down the line until it reached my court.

When I got there, I was met with chaos, as per usual. We had taken up base in an enormous warehouse near the bay, abandoned by it's owner, and the dulcet tunes of Alice Cooper were currently blasting off the walls.

I frowned, making a mental note to tell them to put the volume caps back on the speakers.

We ran a low risk of being heard, because not many people ventured to this end of Gotham due to the heavy toll the explosions that had crippled the city had taken here on the older buildings, but there was always a chance. Bane's men where anywhere and everywhere at once, snooping and spying around for someone to drag off to their joke of a court.

I swept past the Bat Code, a Code that was always scrawled on the walls of our bases, on my way in. It was a Code all of The Young were made to follow or be subjected to banishment. I mentally, almost absently, recited it, as was my habit every time I came in.

_The Batman is alive. _

_The Batman is coming back. _

_The Batman is our protector. _

_We are the Batman's messengers and advocates._

_We take orders from the Batman and no one else. _

_We follow the Batman's example and we do not kill._

_An enemy of the Batman is an enemy of The Young._

_The Young are our family. _

_We will protect The Young at any cost._

_Gotham is worth saving. _

_Anyone who thinks or acts otherwise is our enemy. _

_Gotham is under our protection. _

_We will defend those who cannot defend themselves. _

Greetings met me as The Young began to notice I was there, waving and smiling as best they knew how in times like these and putting their mats away. Many of them slept here, I knew, in the upper levels or, if you were strong enough to defend it, in the back offices.

I nodded at them in return and kept on.

"Maestro!" A young girl's voice made me turn around sharply, and a rare smile spread on my face when I saw her. It was Scout, the girl in charge of reconnaissance, and she was the best I'd ever seen at it.

She was tall for her age, and lanky, with strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes, and barely cleared the twelve-year age limit. But, since she was the same age I was when this madness all began, I had a special bond with her. Her sister, Stitches, was sixteen, and one of our only medics since her mother had been a nurse. She had been pursuing an internship at the hospital when Bane took over, and now she and her sister were both orphans.

Scout slipped down a rope hanging from the upstairs balcony and ran up to me, ponytail swinging behind her.

"Scout. Got anything to report?" I greeted.

Scout was the personification of a monkey, light on her feet and tricky - nearly impossible to catch or even find, for that matter. That made her invaluable for collecting information, much to the chagrin of her older sister.

She nodded eagerly, her ponytail bouncing in excitement.

"I was outside the courthouse and I know you told me not to go there because it's way too dangerous and they'll be expecting us and it drives Stitches batty but I just _knew_ there was a secret for me to find so I just had to go there and-"

"Scout." I said, quietly interrupting her habitual monologue.

She paused and got to the point.

"Bane's lieutenant, Barsad or whatever his name is, was telling a couple of guys that they're getting a private shipment of supplies through the ferries in two days."

I raised an eyebrow behind my mask, plans already swimming in the back of my head at the crucial news.

"Right... the ferries... oh, that's so incredibly helpful. He might as well just say, 'Hey Maestro, why don't you come rob us because we've made ourselves totally vulnerable?' It's perfect. Anything else?"

Scout, who had smiled at my good mood – it was rare, especially now – suddenly furrowed her brow in thought.

"Uhm, a few more resistances were put down on the south side near the docks, Bane took the leader of one of them hostage, the police trapped in the sewers need batteries for their lights and I was thinking we could give them playing cards or something to keep them busy, and... oh yeah. Apparently there's a cop, a detective, that wasn't in the sewers when they collapsed."

I frowned.

"A cop... _besides_ Gordon, survived? I know they're being hunted like dogs in the street... I thought they'd rounded up all the stragglers."

Scout shook her head.

"Nope. This one's good. He's been nosing around, looking for... well, people to rally I guess. Word on the street is he's looking for The Maestro herself."

I rolled my eyes and gave a rather undignified snort.

_As if I'd rally to a cop. They're the ones hunting the Batman, the fools. Or they were._

Despite my disgust for them, I had people run down extra supplies to the ones trapped in the sewers whenever I could.

"Right. What's his name?"

"John Blake."

I nodded.

"Okay. Tell the lookouts to let me know if he gets too close. I'm staying clear of this guy. And spread the word for the other kids on the street to keep their mouths shut, Young or not."

Scout nodded and darted away eagerly, while I was left to process the information I had just received.

_A shipment of supplies through the ferries... if it's going straight to Bane, it's gotta be some pretty big stuff. _

With a wicked smirk, I walked to the center of the room, where a raised platform stood. On top of this was a conductor's podium, where I took my spot.

All eyes turned towards me instantly, and I spotted Jazz and Savvy making their way through the crowd to take their places at my side.

I twirled my conducting baton idly in my hands, something I knew I had a habit of doing while I was planning something.

Judging by the eager looks on their faces of the kids surrounding me, they knew it too.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I've a plan." I began after a moment of silence.

The room burst into excited babble, and I silenced them with another twirl of my baton.

"I've just received word that in two days, Bane, our _fearless leader_," my words dripped sarcasm, and murmurs of disapproval at the mention of his name ran through the crowd, "will be receiving a shipment of supplies by way of ferry, not the bridge. Since everything is now controlled by the people, why should they get the right to private shipments? Let's level the playing field a bit, yeah?"

The cheers of agreement echoed through the warehouse, and I was met with approval on every side. When it came to sticking it to the man, there was no one The Young loved to stick it to more than Bane himself.

I smiled wickedly, the only way I ever smiled anymore.

"Let's get to work."

**A/N: I know I have a _Sherlock_ chapter due, but I already had this finished, and there might be more delays, so I decided to go ahead and post this until I can finish chapter seven of BBH. **

**I don't own DKR, only the OC's and the plot, which, right now, is not worth much, I know. The song is "We Are Young" and it belongs to Fun. **

**Okay, not certain I like this chapter, so I'll need your thoughts. This is mainly the info chapter, so if I made a mistake, please don't hesitate to point it out. (Just be gentle, this is my first time posting an original plot)**

**Special thanks to **SilverBulletAngel**,** Nyah**, **Teacupful**, **the iconic one**, **Paradisical815**, and **Top Hats and Other Items** for the reviews! **

**Hope you enjoyed, and REVIEWS are love!**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	3. The Raid

**For Your Entertainment**

_We've only just begun  
Hypnotized by drums  
Until forever comes  
You'll find us chasing the sun_

They said this day wouldn't come  
We refused to run  
We've only just begun  
You'll find us chasing the sun  


_When the daylight's fading  
We're gonna play in the dark  
Till it's golden again  
And now it feels so amazing  
Can see you coming  
And we'll never grow old again  
You'll find us chasing the sun _

_Chapter II_

_The Raid_

"Right, so I go in front here, and then we have both quartets flank the sides... we'll need a distraction... where's Matchstick? I told her we were meeting!" I demanded as I slammed my hand on the table in front of me in frustration.

It was late; well, really more like early, nearly two in the morning. I had gathered some of my strongest members around the planning table at the back of the warehouse to organize the raid, but I could see many of them starting to zone out on me.

A kid who had fallen asleep next to me snapped awake as the flat of my hand made contact with the table, wiping drool off his face sheepishly.

I glared at him.

"Sorry, are we boring you? This isn't a high school algebra class; I'm trying to save a city here." I said, beyond irritated. The kid, who went by the name Striker and was about sixteen, paled.

"I-I'm sorry Maestro, I was doing runs all day and-"

"Take a walk, and either clear your head or don't come back." I said, leaning back over the outline of the docks where Bane would be receiving his shipment, displayed in front of me.

"But-"

"Did I stutter?" I asked calmly, fixing my black gaze on him. I knew it was unnerving; Savvy and Jazz had both told me so on more than one occasion.

Striker hesitated, then did as I said.

I looked around. They all looked exhausted, and I wondered if I was pushing too hard. A part of me grudgingly admitted they'd work better if they got more sleep; we had a full day tomorrow to plan and it _was_ awfully late. Luckily, Savvy, seeing my indecision, spoke up for me.

"Everybody hit the hay. We'll reconvene in the morning. That means no loitering. Those of you that stay here, go immediately to bed. The rest of you, do what you want, but if you become a liability because you didn't sleep I will banish you faster than you can blink."

Seeing as how Savvy was my lieutenant, she had the power to do that.

An eighteen-year-old, who went by the alias Rook, grumbled something about her not being his mother, and there were murmurs of agreement throughout the group.

I leapt up on the table, conducting baton in hand, and pointed it at him. The crowd shut up instantly.

"Rook, you will not be going on the raid with us. Instead, you will be delivering the feminine hygiene products to the female cops in the sewers for two weeks. Anything to say about that?" I asked, my lips twisting into a snarl below my mask.

His eyes flashed dangerously, but he wisely didn't say another word. I looked back at the rest of them.

"Dismissed. Those of you who sleep off-base, meet me here at seven sharp. Anyone late will not be going with us."

With that, I stepped off the table, and the thirty or so kids who'd been planning with me dispersed without another word. Several of them began setting out their mats next to the ones who hadn't been a part of the planning process, and the others left the building to head to their shelters across the city. Still others, the more nocturnal ones, would be out running supplies to the more volatile parts of Gotham under the cover of darkness, patrolling, or simply scouting.

Savvy and I were left standing beside the table, and she turned to me with a sigh.

"You haven't snapped at anyone like that in a while. What's going on in that brilliant head of yours?" she asked, rubbing her hands across her cocoa-colored arms for extra heat. It was freezing in the warehouse despite the one or two small furnaces we'd managed to snag, which were positioned at strategic locations between the mats of sleeping rebels.

I turned my back on her to peer over the outline of the docks one of our scouts had drawn for us.

"Haven't seen Jazz in a while. He still out running supplies?" I asked, changing the subject.

Aside from stealing from Bane, delivering creature comforts to the cops in the sewers, and spreading the Batman's message of hope across Gotham, there was also a certain number of families that The Young made daily runs to, bringing extra medicine or food to those that needed it.

Savvy sighed again.

"Yeah. He's been out there all day."

I grunted in reply, mind swimming with possibilities for the raid. This was major; we hadn't had a huge break like this in a while. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, to finally strike out at the masked psycho who had taken over my city, to really hit him where it hurts. I didn't want to be a mere fly, mildly irritating at worst; I wanted to be a migraine, a deep, pulsing pain in his backside, one too big to ignore. Although, if Scout's spy detail was anything to go by, the man – _monster_ – couldn't actually feel pain with the mask on.

But that was semantics.

Part of me knew I was inviting the devil to my door by doing this, and it was also the part of me that didn't care. He sacked my city and pretended to kill it's hero, and if he thought the youth of Gotham would simply lie down and take it, he had another thing coming.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and tensed, knowing it was Savvy but disliking the contact anyways.

"Maestro. They're with you. They're with you one-hundred and forty percent. Not everybody is just going to suddenly betray you without warning. Why can't you see that?" Her voice was almost pleading. Before I could respond, however, we were interrupted.

"Hey Savvy. Hey Maestro. What did I miss?" Matchstick, our arsonist, swept in, her dark brown hair swinging in an immaculate ponytail behind her.

I assumed she was around eighteen; out of all The Young, ( I made a point of getting to know my rebels) Matchstick was the one I knew the least about. All I knew was that she'd been one of the most recent to join us, she was a little bit of a pyromaniac, and she was an extremely loose canon. She did what she thought was best without thought of the consequences, and that made her very dangerous to have around.

"Where were you?" I demanded, whirling on her, "I told you we were meeting to discuss the raid!"

She rolled her eyes.

"I was running errands. Besides, Rook offered to fill me in later."

I bristled, ready to chew her out, when Savvy spoke up for me. She was good at that.

"It doesn't matter. You're one of our only arsonists and we need you for this job. You were supposed to be _here_."

She shrugged, and I might have imagined the contempt that flashed in her eyes.

"Sorry. Won't happen again. What time are we meeting in the morning?"

Back under control, I responded sharply, jerking my thumb in the direction of the mats behind me.

"_They_ are meeting at seven. _You_ will be here at five-thirty so I can debrief you. If you aren't here on time, I'll get someone else to start the fires. Am I making myself clear?"

She held my gaze for a moment, her blue eyes locking with my flint-black ones, then nodded.

"Sure."

She then swept to one of the back offices where she had taken up residence, shut the door, and all was silent again.

"I don't trust her." I muttered quietly to Savvy, who rolled her eyes in an exasperated sort of way.

"You don't trust anyone Maestro, and that's going to hurt you someday. I'm going to bed. You should too."

With that, she turned on her heel and exited the warehouse, vanishing into the shadows as was her habit.

I sighed and turned back to the outline, the only light in the room being the electronic lantern positioned dead center of the table. It was flickering; we'd need new batteries soon.

For a while I just stared at it; watched it dim and brighten and attempt to fight the shadows that, at any moment, threatened to overcome and snuff out the light.

_Where are you? _I asked silently, idly tracing a Bat symbol that had been carved into the wood of the table. _Why did you leave us? _

It was a question no one had the answer to, and I prayed when he did come back, it wouldn't be too late.

I looked back at the flickering lantern.

We were running out of time.

**~DKR~**

Despite Savvy's advice, I didn't sleep much that night. Instead, I went back to the condemned apartment complex that I called home and composed until daylight, stopping only once to take a two-hour catnap.

Composing came naturally to me; often the hardest part was deciding which instrument to compose it _for_.

In my apartment alone, I had a keyboard, three violins (one of which was a Stradivarius) two electrics and an acoustic guitar, a pair of bagpipes (don't ask) a saxophone, a trumpet, two clarinets, a flute, and a triangle, which was more therapeutic than anything else.

Does that surprise you, dear reader, to know that I have so many instruments, which were undoubtably very expensive? It really shouldn't. After all, when Gotham fell, people were more concerned about looting the grocery stores and the clinics than the music shops. That left everything free for the taking for people like me, who would rather starve than be without music. Everything but the Stradivarius, which had been my mother's at one point, was from a music store a few blocks away from my apartment. I also had amps, cords, microphones and their corresponding stands, and stacks and stacks and _stacks_ of blank musical scores, just waiting to be filled in.

And that was just my apartment. We had several musically-inclined rebels back at base; there was no telling how many of them had smuggled in their personal instruments when they learned it was acceptable to do so.

When daylight came, I left my sheets of music and placed my mask back over my face, before leaving my building and heading to one of the few still-functioning organizations in Gotham, a public gym, where people came to shower if they didn't have access to water where they were staying. Since my apartment had been condemned long before Gotham fell, I came here often.

I showered quickly and scrubbed away the ink smeared on my hands from writing all night, before dressing in a clean(er) pair of jeans and a black tank top, and threw on a brown leather duster to go over that. This was completed with my ankle boots and fingerless gloves, my too-long blonde hair in a ponytail, and my face re-concealed by my mask.

Mentally, I kept track of how long I'd been here. I had a price on my head; granted, not a large one, but anyone who knew anything about me was to report it directly to one of Bane's lackeys so I could be executed as an example in their joke of a court system. I wouldn't blame someone for doing it; in this city everyone had to look out for their own and I respected that, but there were a lot of decent people who I didn't want to have to choose between feeding their families (those who turned in the remaining police and rebels received extra rations) or letting me live and doing the right thing. I'd have to leave soon.

I peered at myself in the mirror, fogged slightly by the heat of my shower.

In another life, I might have been considered pretty without the mask on. I mean, don't guys usually tend to go for blondes or something? But the set of my jaw, hardened by time, and the darkness in my black eyes, cold with distrust, made me look untouchable in a venomous sort of way.

_Then again_, I mused almost absently, _in times like these, that's hardly a bad thing._

I turned away from the mirror, emotionless. I never had time to dwell on myself for long, and I'd never really wanted to, anyways. There were always more important things, especially now.

I left the gym out the back door and made my way to base. It was five o'clock, and nobody but the occasional junkie stirred in the alleys as I made my way through them, avoiding the main roads and even the larger side streets. I was extra careful today, after hearing Scout's news that not only were Bane's Goons looking for me, but now that detective, John Blake, - whoever the heck he was - was too.

Once again, I scoffed at the very idea of The Young pairing up with adult rebels. I knew I, at nineteen, was technically an adult myself, but I related more to teens and didn't trust the ones who were supposed to protect the city - and then failed miserably.

The base was relatively still when I got there at around five-fifteen; many of the kids were still sleeping, save for the ones who had been out all night and were just now coming in to grab a few hours of rest.

To my surprise, Matchstick was already waiting for me by the table.

"Good morning, Maestro." she greeted with a nod of her head. She looked exhausted, but this raid had to be important to her if she was meeting me earlier than our already ridiculously early meeting time, which I might have only scheduled as a punishment for her missing last night.

"Matchstick. Glad you decided to show up." I responded, leaning over the plans stretched out on the meeting table between us.

"I apologized for that." she said calmly, but with an undercurrent of venom that I had never heard from her before. Nevertheless, I ignored it in favor of drawing her attention back to the matter at hand and bringing her up to speed on the plan of attack for later.

But I stored away the venom in her voice and the contemptuous look she had given Savvy last night, filing them away to ponder about later.

I still didn't trust her.

**~DKR~**

It was around four when it happened.

We were still planning, having stopped only once to pass out rations for lunch and eat (I gave mine to Jazz) and it didn't look like we would be finished anytime soon. I wanted this plan to be flawless, with as little risks as possible, which meant we'd likely be running through this until the last possible second.

I had just decided on an effective way to split up the rebels into groups during the raid when the familiar tune from the rooftops sliced through the warehouse, and, for a breathless moment, everything froze.

Bane's Goons were nearby.

"_Allegro._" I whispered, the code word traveling through the group and having an instantaneous effect. Everyone, except for Jazz, Savvy, and myself, vanished into the shadows of the warehouse, many climbing the ropes to the second floor with ease to seek shelter there. While I was glad many of The Young were out on errands, several of them, more than just the thirty I had been planning with, were still here. If the warehouse was searched thoroughly enough, more than one of them would be found.

"You and you, with me." I said as I gestured to my lieutenants, exiting the building to scale a drainpipe to the roof. You couldn't trust the staircases inside to hold anyways, and this was faster. Jazz and Savvy were close behind me as always, and the wind whipped around me as I climbed higher and higher. The warehouse was pretty big, nearly five stories tall, so if one of us fell, it would be fatal.

Luckily, all three of us have had more than a little practice with this sort of thing.

When I made it to the top, I laid eyes on Scout, evidently the one who had whistled, leaning over the edge of the building with a pair of binoculars.

"How many?" I asked quietly, crouching beside her.

"That I can see? About the size of a large chorus - eight or nine at the most. Looks like a routine sweep, but they don't usually come out here in forces this strong." she responded, handing me the binoculars.

"So what changed?" I asked, almost to myself, as Jazz and Savvy came to perch next to us.

It was bitterly cold, and the wind tossed my hair haphazardly around in it's ponytail, which had fallen slightly loose since my shower this morning.

I spotted a few of the men, all looking exactly like what you'd envision a bunch of thugs who haven't showered in a week and a half to look like. They were about two and a half blocks away, and all of them carried monstrous-looking machine guns capable of wiping out my entire rebellion in seconds.

The sick part? I could tell by the soullessness in their eyes that these particular Goons wouldn't have a problem doing so.

"Jazz," I whispered, knowing the men couldn't hear me from that distance but choosing to remain quiet anyways, "take a quartet to the east side of the Warehouse District and create a diversion. Lead them to you, and then circle back here once they're preoccupied. Take Matchstick and have her light something up. I don't care what it is, just make it far and make it big."

Jazz nodded like a soldier receiving his orders and left; the only reason I could hear him sliding down the drainpipe was because of my hypersensitive ears.

"What about us?" Scout asked, taking her binoculars back and peering through them as the men steadily advanced.

"We wait." I said calmly, taking out my Conductor's baton from the leg of my jeans and sitting up, before closing my eyes and twirling the object skillfully between my fingers. There was an irritated sigh from Scout; she hated waiting, but I blocked it out and listened.

I didn't see, but rather _heard_ the men's bawdy chatter, the words indiscernible but the inflections and pitches loud and clear as they came within a block of our warehouse, poking around in the dark corners and alleyways and occasionally hassling a junkie or two when they stumbled across one. I didn't see, but rather _heard _the impatient rustle of our other lookouts on the surrounding rooftops, eager for action.

_Wait. Don't be impulsive. Trust me. Come on Jazz, don't let me down. _

I heard Savvy shift as she, ever the patient and controlled one, even grew uncomfortable with the men's steadily-advancing proximity. I could hear them sending men into the warehouses they passed; they were sloppy and careless but they would find someone if they were nosy enough.

"Maestro, we may need to get back down there." Savvy whispered, out of necessity this time since the men were getting very close and the wind was carrying the sound farther up here.

I didn't respond, merely twirled my baton and listened.

The Goons were half a block away.

_Come on Jazz. Come on. _

"Maestro, Stitches is still down there!" Scout was more frantic than impatient now. I quieted her with a look that read, "_trust me_" and she stilled.

They were close enough for my alert ears to catch part of their conversation.

"Up ahead, that the place Barsad told us to check out?"

I froze, the baton ceasing its rotation between my fingers and coming to a halt as my knuckles whitened around the wood, knowing the "place" they were referring to currently held a great number of The Young.

_No... _

"Yeah," came the response from one of the Goons, "this is the address they left at the courthouse. Doesn't look suspicious to me."

It felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.

Only a member of The Young would know where we were staying. So either someone had accidentally let it slip to the wrong party, or we had just been sold out.

With my trust issues, I would have bet all the money I didn't have on the latter.

I opened my eyes, and my flint-black glaze locked with that of my companions. The same thing was running through their heads as well.

"Looks empty," said another, sounding bored, "and unstable. We really gotta go in? It could collapse on our heads!"

"We're going in," said the first one, firmly, who sounded like the one in charge, "I'm not getting my neck snapped when the rebels turn up out of thin air and attack, all because we didn't search a stupid warehouse."

I mentally cursed Bane's thoroughness. Why could he not be just a _little_ bit of a slacker? But of course that was entirely too much to hope for, if only for the reason that the Fates seemed to hate Gotham.

I slid back and stood, preparing to head down the drainpipe and into the warehouse to defend my Young. Jazz was too late. The Goons were going in. There was no question now.

The baton in my hands wasn't one of my two specially-made ones designed for combat, but it was still wood and I knew how to put someone in the hospital with it. I tucked it into the back of my pants as I prepared to slide down the drainpipe, Savvy and Scout close behind.

That was when I heard it. The men below us were shouting.

At first, I thought they had found someone before even entering the building, and I prepared myself for a fight. But then Scout gestured to me and pointed to the distance, several blocks away, where billows of black smoke were soaring towards the grey winter sky above us, emanating from an abandoned warehouse that had been condemned before even the Batman's time.

I smiled.

_Jazz, my magnificent lieutenant, I will love you until the day I die. _

I knew he and whomever else he had taken had probably sprinted to get that far away in time. Shouts of

"The Batman lives!", "Down with the masked menace!", and "Gotham's youth have a voice!" could be heard from the distance, and I knew they were using loudspeakers.

With a grin, I listened as the men swore loudly and sprinted in that direction, but I knew they'd never catch them. If I knew Matchstick and her fires at all, and I did, she would have started it in a really convoluted way and in several different spots that would probably take hours to put out, distracting the Goons for the time being.

And if I recognized the building right, that was one of our false hideouts, our dummies, so when the wreckage was searched the men would see evidence of us living there and think they'd merely had the wrong address. Jazz had bought us just enough time to pull off the raid and then relocate, instead of us having to do an inverted version of that process and then become too busy to pull off what we'd been planning.

Scout, Savvy and I waited for an hour, until I knew Jazz and his crew had been safely back for a while and the Goons were preoccupied with the fire, before coming down and giving the all-clear signal with a warning to be quiet.

Not that the men were particularly concerned that the building was burning; they wouldn't have been interested in the fire at all if they didn't care so much about the contents of the wreckage to figure out who we were and what, exactly, we were trying to do.

But, with the exception of Jazz, we told no one about the possibility of having been sold out.

The day ended as it had before, with the thirty of us around the planning table and the lantern that flickered against the darkness.

The light was slowing succumbing, and I ignored any comparisons that could have been made.

**~DKR~ **

I didn't go back to my apartment that night. Instead, I stayed at the planning table and went over the plan again and again and again in my head.

All night, my scouts were on a constant rotation, keeping an eye on the Goons as they put out the fire, nosed around a while longer, and, eventually, left the district without finding anything.

When morning came, my rebels roused, and, one by one, grabbed their things and joined me at the table. Savvy and Jazz came by my side, and I locked eyes with everyone in my group.

We were silent.

Three boys, known collectively as The Playing Cards, (Jack, King, and Spade, respectively) hoisted the overlarge speakers onto their already overlarge shoulders. They had all been lineman on the Gotham High football team, and even with their size I could see the youth in their faces and it broke my heart.

I found myself hating, not for the first time, Bane and the nightmares he was putting these people through. I hadn't had a conventional childhood or adolescence, and I had often envied the ones that had, but I had never wanted them to be deprived of it.

These boys, like all the rest, were so very, very young.

_Not that I'm much older._

Savvy put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, and, with a comforting squeeze, I was The Maestro again, untouchable and in control.

I nodded at them, and silently as death, we left the warehouse.

**~DKR~**

"What do you see?" I asked Scout as she climbed back down from the roof overlooking the docks with feline grace. She looked a little pale.

"Fifteen or twenty of them, all armed. The ferries aren't here yet, but they already have trucks running and ready to be loaded. It looks like they'll take the stuff straight from the ferries and put them on the trucks right away. We'll only have a few minutes to make our move." she responded, tugging on her ponytail.

I smiled slightly, which seemed to calm her.

"We planned for this, remember? Relax. All we have to do is speed things up a hair. No big deal." I turned back to The Young. "Alright guys, _accelerando!_"

They dispersed in seconds. Overhead, I, and only I, could hear the soft sounds of the Cards setting up the speakers. Mentally, I counted down, adjusting my mask and gripping my two conductor's batons, these particular pair specifically designed for combat with a metal rod buried inside the wood. They were capable of doing some serious damage, and damage, dear reader, is what I intended to do.

From the alleyway where I stood, I could see the men on the docks stirring as the ferries pulled into the port.

I watched, silently, from the alley. Around me, I could hear everything: scuffles from my rebels that told me exactly where each and every one of them was located, murmurs from the men as they began unloading crates from the boats, and the steady thrum of the car engines, ready to move the shipment to wherever the heck Bane kept these things. And... something else, distantly, something I knew I had heard before, but couldn't quite place. It was low, and slightly metallic, and sounded vaguely like a slumbering snake.

But I didn't have time to dwell on this as my mental countdown hit zero and I snatched the small whistle hanging around my neck, pressed it to my lips, and blew.

A soft, sweet, lullaby-like tune that I had composed pierced the air and settled over the docks with the obstinate morning mist, making the men pause in their tracks for a moment as the haunting melody descended over the area.

Quickly, I played, my fingers dancing over the holes expertly as the tune grew less and less like a lullaby and more and more like a funeral march, before it slowly, gently, tapered off into nothingness as though it had never been.

For three beats, there was silence. The men on the docks were all on their guard, having totally stopped what they were doing. A few of them hoisted their guns higher warily, in silent challenge of the tune.

For a single beat more, there was nothing, nothing but that odd hissing sound I'd heard earlier.

Finally: "You two! Go sweep the area!" That was Barsad, I was certain of it. With perfect pitch, I never forget a voice, and I'd heard that one often enough to recognize it in my sleep. He was the bane of our existence, even more so than, well, _Bane_, because he was almost always patrolling; unlike the other Goons he couldn't be bribed, and he never slacked off. If it had been Barsad that had come to our base yesterday, we would have been discovered, fire or not.

_Three, two, one... _

The men were at the mouth of my alley. I, unconcealed, would literally be seen in nanoseconds.

_Back in black  
I hit the sack  
I've been too long I'm glad to be back  
Yes I'm, let loose  
From the noose  
That's kept me hanging about  
I keep looking at the sky  
'Cause it's gettin' me high  
Forget the hearse 'cause I'll never die  
I got nine lives  
Cat's eyes  
Using every one of them and running wild..._

The noise slammed through the speakers on the roof out of nowhere, startling some of the men so much they actually fired a few shots. Those were the trigger-happy ones, and since I'd been telling The Cards to look out for those they'd be the ones they'd go after. Everyone's gazes shot to the sky, searching for the source of the noise, and I smirked again.

_Too easy. _

I sprung forward, spinning my batons and slamming them into the skulls of the two men Barsad had sent my way, snatching their guns and removing the clips from them with ease as they slumped to the ground.

"Hello, gentlemen!" I said, stalking into the light as the few men who had noticed my attack above the noise looked my way, "Who's up for a music lesson?"

That's when all heck broke loose.

**A/N: Hope this was worth the wait! And don't worry, we'll be seeing Crane next chapter, promise. :) **

**I don't own DKR, only the OC's, specifically Maestro, and the plot. The song at the beginning is "Chasing the Sun" by The Wanted, and the other one is "Back in Black" by ACDC. :D **

**I don't have a beta for this story, so if anyone's interested, shoot me a PM! **

**Any thoughts? Questions? Comments? Concerns? REVIEW and let me know! **

**Also, special thanks to **Teacupful, Emily, FormofJane, Guest, Rikki18, takara410, Eva Sirico, Top Hats and Other Items, BreeBree12345, the iconic one, SilverBulletAngel, **and anyone else who favorited or alerted! You guys ROCK! **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	4. The Taken

**For Your Entertainment**

_We are the angry and the desperate, __  
The hungry, and the cold,  
We are the ones that kept quiet,  
And always did what we were told._

_But we've been sweating while you slept so calm,_  
_In the safety of your home._  
_We've been pulling out the nails that hold up_  
_Everything you've known._  
_Don't hold me up now,_  
_I can stand my own ground,_  
_I don't need your help now,_  
_You won't let me down, down, down!_

_So open your eyes child,_  
_Let's be on our way._  
_Broken windows and ashes_  
_Are guiding the way._

_Keep quiet no longer,_  
_We'll sing through the day,_  
_Of the lives that we've lost,_  
_And the lives we've reclaimed._

_Chapter III_

_The Taken_

I don't know how many of you have ever been in an actual fight, but let me tell you, it's not what they make it out to be in movies. There's nothing glamorous or attractive about it; it's bloody and painful and, yes, _scary_.

No sooner had those words of challenge left my lips did the men rush at us, hoisting their weapons (or trying to) before my faster rebels tackled them. Very few of them, mercifully, had time to squeeze the trigger before the Playing Cards had them pinned.

I myself was handling three of the larger Goons, striking with my batons as fast as humanly possible and blocking out the pain from the hits they managed to land. Something warm and wet was dribbling from my lip, past my chin and down my neck, but it barely registered. In that moment, there was nothing but the cries of the Goons as they fell, one by one, from the unexpected attack, the yells of exertion from my rebels, and me, swinging and ducking with well-timed precision. Having exceptional hearing helped; I could usually hear a swing or sneak attack before it came and manage to maneuver around it in time.

I struck out with two more strategically placed blows, and then there was just one hulking mass of stupidity left in front of me.

We circled warily. I didn't dare strike; it was always unwise to lash out first because that gave your opponent time (granted, not very much) to analyze your move and come up with a way to block you and strike back. Unfortunately, no one told Tall, Dark, and Stupid that, because after another tense moment of waiting, he lunged.

This particular Goon was the type that was only remotely useful with a gun, and since I had robbed him of it a long while ago, all it took was a hard blow to his head as he came for me and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

I rolled my eyes.

_At least give me a challenge. _

This obstacle passed, I swiveled around to get my bearings. The scene was pandemonium. Most of the Goons had been robbed of their weapons, save for a small few, Barsad included, that had been driven back into a warehouse located conveniently nearby, trying to aim at us through the fog and not hit the men still fighting. We had been prepared for this, so my rebels stuck close to the Goons for human shields.

I looked back at the ferries, pleased to see that, with the Goons disarmed and distracted, many of The Young had already made off with several crates of who-knows-what. The fighting was merely a diversion, and I wished I could be there to see the looks on the men's faces when they realized they'd been outsmarted by a group of adolescents.

I allowed myself a moment to smile in satisfaction and jumped back into the fray.

The fighting was thick and the morning fog still clung obstinately to the area; it was hard to see much and I had to rely on my hearing even more than usual as I fought Goon after Goon. That was okay with me; the blaring rock music from above didn't impede my hearing in any way.

That's when I heard it again.

That mechanical hissing sound from before was louder now, and much closer. This was followed by gasps of fear and surprise, gasps I knew came from my rebels and not the Goons. I couldn't turn to see what it was though, engaged as I was in a fight with two men, so I tried to listen over the sound of screaming and bones cracking.

Fortunately, (or perhaps unfortunately) I didn't have to wait long to figure it out. I struck out at one of the men and leaped clear, and as I did so I came into contact with something hard and unyielding and bounced off rather ungracefully.

_What the-?_

The ground rushed up to meet me and I braced myself in a roll, before coming to rest in a crouch and looking up to see what I'd hit.

I froze, terror filling my extremities as my fight or flight reaction warred in my head.

I was looking straight into the soulless grey eyes of Bane himself. They were hard and calculating above the hissing mask that covered the lower portion of his face, and his hulking body loomed over me like an ominous cloud, blocking out the morning sun. The Young and Goons alike had given him a wide berth, and I could see Savvy out of the corner of my eye, ready to jump to my defense at a moment's notice.

For a second, the entire world came to a screeching halt and my heart pounded in my ears; I'd only been this afraid once in my whole life and this time my dark angel was nowhere in sight.

His eyes held mine and his mask hissed again, and I knew then that The Young gotten our wish for his attention. In his gaze, I saw myself being crushed like a bug beneath his thick military-grade combat boots.

That's when I knew we were screwed.

Behind me, I could hear the two Goons I'd been fighting before I fell advancing towards me again, and Bane took a step forward, his gaze as expressionless as ever.

And then the warehouse that had been shielding the still-armed Goons burst into flames.

Bane's head snapped in that direction, something like surprise crossing what little I could see of his features. That actually hadn't been Matchstick's directive; she was just supposed to block off the alleys with flame so the Goons couldn't go for reinforcements, but I'd never been so glad she'd done her own thing.

Not hesitating, I rolled out of the way again, darting away with the cry of, "Fall back!" on my lips.

I hadn't planned for Bane; he was usually at the courthouse in the mornings and I wasn't risking my rebels because of something I hadn't counted on, especially not if that something was freaking _Bane_.

My rebels complied all too eagerly, particularly those that had seen the masked menace. The ones still carrying supplies they hadn't yet loaded on the two massive U-haul trucks we'd confiscated for the heist quickly made a beeline for them, the others clearing their path to the back alley where they were located. From there, it was a straight shot to the open street.

The Goons were stumbling out of the burning building like ants from an anthill, coughing and covered in soot as they did so. A few of the ones in better shape hoisted their guns up.

We had to go _now_.

The engines were already running and kids were already behind the wheel; many were already waiting for us in the trucks.

"_Accelerando!_" I shouted, motioning for the ones on the rooftops to hurry as the men began taking aim. The first truck, loaded with supplies, was already driving away. I gripped the handles on the outside of the remaining truck and braced my feet against the bumper as the last five stragglers came within arm's length of me, sliding down drainpipes at inhuman speed.

The Goons opened fire.

The outrageously loud noise slammed through my ears, and if I could have doubled over in pain from the sound I would have; it hurt that badly.

I heard, rather than saw, who got hit, and from what I could tell from the cries of pain it was three strikes and two misses. A few kids inside the truck screamed in fear, and the car started pealing away from the alley. The two that didn't get hit, a boy and a girl about the same age as my lieutenants, managed to jump on just in time.

"Stop! Stop the car!" Savvy yelled, hoping to give the other three one last chance. It would never have worked.

"We can't! They'll have us all if we go back!" I shouted over the wind as it rushed through my ears, shaking my head. It was too late for them.

"_Maestro!_"

My head snapped back to the alley at the scream of pain and fear that reached my ears, and what I saw just before we rounded a corner at breakneck speed nearly made me loose my grip.

The Goons had forced the three rebels that had been left behind to their knees, guns trained on them.

They were all bleeding heavily from the bullets they had taken, and Bane was standing over them, his eyes unreadable.

And kneeling on the far left, the one that had screamed, was Scout.

**~DKR~**

My court had never been so quiet.

There was no music, no shouting, no running or planning.

There was only silence.

As we entered, the rebels that had stayed behind began frantically searching for their siblings among the ones that had gone on the raid. Mercifully, of the three that had been taken, Scout was the only one with a relative in The Young, and Stitches was too preoccupied giving medical aid to those that needed it to notice the absence of her always-absent sister. I suppose in her mind, Scout was untouchable; the very idea of her elusive sister being taken was an impossibility.

Enter Maestro: one who makes the impossible, possible.

The trucks we'd loaded with supplies had been driven all the way across town to the location we'd be moving to as soon as night fell; we'd made off with about twenty crates of weapons, ammo, and kevlar.

Ordinarily I would have been overjoyed at the thought that we had looted Bane and found a way to protect ourselves in the process, but the knowledge that Scout had taken made my chest ache in a way it hadn't for almost nine years.

I climbed up to the balcony and watched as my (_brave, too-young_) rebels packed what few items they had in preparation for tonight, including the speakers and other equipment.

_Maestro!_

Scout's grating, raw, _terrified_ scream echoed through my sensitive ears on replay, making me slam my eyes shut and grip the railing in front of me until my knuckles turned white.

I hate screams. Ever since _that_ _night_ I've hated them.

"Maestro, you wanted to see me?" Stitches' voice snapped me out of my unwelcome memories, and I turned to find her standing there expectantly. I'd forgotten I'd told Savvy to send her to me, and I was not looking forward to the upcoming conversation. Before I could say anything, however, her eyes narrowed at me.

"Maestro, your lip is bleeding."

I raised a hand to my mouth, found that she was correct, and shrugged.

"It's not a big deal."

"Uh-huh. You look like a vampire. Here, take this."

She handed me an antiseptic wipe for the excess blood and a cotton ball to stop the rest of the bleeding, and as ridiculous as I felt cleaning up like this, I knew what was coming was about to feel a whole lot worse.

Satisfied that I wasn't going to bleed out via my mouth, she nodded.

"What did you want to talk to me about?"

I inhaled, then looked her dead in the eyes.

"Stitches... it's Scout."

Stitches went from expectant to terrified in a nanosecond.

"What happened? Where is she? Is she okay?"

I didn't even have to say anything. She could tell from the look in my eyes.

_Maestro! _Scout's scream echoed through my memory again.

Stitches sank to her knees, hand pressed against her mouth in agony as she began to cry. Even though I wasn't one for comforting, I came down with her and put my hand on her shoulder as she wept. I knew Scout was the only family she had left. Rumor had it that Stitches had been working in the hospital when her mother was killed for trying to prevent Bane's Goons from getting to the commissioner. Even though she had died, it had bought him enough time for him to go for his gun and escape.

Rumor had it Stitches had watched her mother die.

I knew the feeling.

"Is... is she...?" our medic sniffed, unable to get out a full sentence through her quiet sobs.

"Taken. They're going to put her in front of the court." I whispered quietly, knowing the twelve-year-old didn't stand a chance against the "Death or Exile" choice she would be given. Nobody did, and that was the dirty little not-so-secret, because it was actually a choice between being shot in the head and crashing through the icy river that separated Gotham from the mainland and drowning.

Stitches cried harder, and I bit my lip, the thought of the courts and the man who presided over them making my blood boil in a dangerous sort of way.

In that second, something clicked in my head, and I knew what I had to do.

I put more pressure on Stitches' shoulder, prompting her to look up at me.

"It's going to be okay. I promise."

When she met my eyes, understanding shot through hers and her tears dried. She knew.

"Be careful." she bid, and I nodded once, then stood up and slid down the rope to the ground level.

"Savvy!" I called, heading towards the back offices.

My lieutenant materialized next to me, taking up a steady trot to keep up with my own determined stride.

"Yes?"

We entered the office and I closed the door behind us.

"I'm going after them."

She froze, and I swiveled to look at her. There was a look of careful warning on her face, as though she was trying to talk me down off the proverbial ledge.

"Maestro, not that that isn't noble or anything, and it sucks that it happened to Scout, but you need to be rational. We haven't planned for anything like this, and there's no way you're gonna be able to sneak in and get out with her."

My blood was buzzing with determination, and I knew I looked slightly crazed.

"Not just Scout. All of them."

"All _three_ of them? Maestro, I'm trying to be the voice of reason here; think this through!"

I gave her a wicked grin that never boded well for anybody.

"Oh no Savvy, you don't understand. _All of them._ Every last one of them on trial today. I'm going to get them _all_ out."

Her jaw dropped.

"And how exactly do you plan on doing this? Maestro, this would take weeks of planning on a _normal_ day, but after you've just stolen cargo from Bane himself? He's gonna see you coming a mile away!"

Undeterred, I pressed on.

"There's always the contingencies. Those are meant to be used on the fly."

She stared at me as though I had finally gone off my rocker.

"Maestro, are you even listening to yourself? We've barely even gone over the contingencies! Most of them don't even know what they are!"

It was taking incredible restraint not to completely lose my cool at her. She didn't understand. This was _Scout_. She was _twelve_. It was my fault she was in this mess, and I was going to get her out of it if it killed me.

It very well could.

"You know them. Jazz knows them. The older ones know them. That will be enough."

_I hope. _

There was sadness in her eyes, and I knew she was worried about me. She tried one last tactic to get me to forget about them, all the while probably knowing it wouldn't work.

"Maestro, you do know who's going to be there, right? Can you handle that?"

I looked back at her expressionlessly, forcing all thoughts of fire-breathing horses and men yelling about fear out of my head as I absently rubbed the palm of my right hand.

"I'll be fine."

She sighed and ran a hand through her tousled hair in defeat.

"Alright. Which one are we doing then?"

"Um... Contingency Plan Harmony would be best. I think Courante would be a _tad_ overkill. Just apply one of the groups to the foyer." I said, rummaging through the nearby desk for The Score, a list of every rebel in The Young, their age, and their abilities. I shoved it at her.

"Take this and do what you can with it. Make sure Matchstick does everything exactly according to plan this time. There is _zero_ room for improvisation."

She nodded resignedly.

"And the masks?"

"Stashed under the podium. We'll need every makeup specialist we have on this one."

Savvy grabbed my shoulders as I moved to walk past her, and it took everything I had to rein in the instinctual defense mechanism that urged me to strike out at her for touching me.

"Maestro. This isn't your fault." This was her last ditch effort to keep me here, and I could see the depths of her fear for me in her eyes.

I carefully removed her hands from my shoulders.

"Had I known Bane was going to be there today, I never would have allowed this raid. I couldn't go back for them." My voice was soft, and it carried every ounce of my guilt and fear over this. Had these been different circumstances, I might not have cared so much, because this type of caring could get someone killed, but this was _Scout_. She didn't deserve this; she was far too young. She deserved to have a chance to grow up and be a gymnast and win gold medals in the Olympics and become someone that _mattered_.

Because at twelve, any chances of mattering to anyone were shattered for me. I was going to bring Bane crumbling down, and I would do it all for kids like her, kids that deserved a chance.

Savvy gave me a sad smile.

"You were right. You protected the rest. If we had gone back, we all would have been taken, and then they would have no chance and The Young would have been without a leader."

I found myself grateful for her loyalty and constant support. I knew I wasn't the easiest person to follow.

She lifted her chin determinedly.

"Alright, if we're actually going to do this, let's do it right. What time?"

I gave her a rare smile and looked down at my wristwatch. It was almost eleven in the morning.

"2:25 on the nose. _Don't_ be late."

With that, I strode past her and out the door, composing a small tune in my head.

Had anyone else heard it, they would have said it was a funeral march.

**~DKR~**

Despite his size and, at times noisy, mask, Bane could be as silent as a cat when he wanted to. The girl currently pressing a bloody hand to her equally bloody shoulder inside the holding cell in the back of the courthouse hadn't even noticed him yet, standing as he was against the wall next to the bars that kept her captive.

Then again, it could've been because she was enduring a massive amount of pain, the likes of which someone her age would probably never have experienced. Her head tilted back and her eyes rolled up in soundless agony, but she wasn't screaming as the other two young rebels down the hall were. That's exactly what had prompted him to watch her, recognizing a strength in her that reminded him of another young girl from a very long time ago.

She couldn't have been older than twelve, with matted strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes that leaked with silent tears. Her too-thin body was shaking and curled into the corner as it had been for over an hour, ignoring the filthy cot against the wall that probably would have provided her with more comfort than she was feeling now.

He absently wondered why she avoided it, but then decided there were more pressing questions that needed answering and withdrew a ring of keys that jingled loudly.

Her shimmering blue eyes snapped up to meet his own grey ones as he slowly opened the door, pressing herself even closer to the corner. Despite the trembling of her lower lip in terror, she didn't look away from him, merely cowered. He guessed it had less to do with bravery and more to do with the instinctual need prey has to keep it's predator in it's sight at all times.

"You seem to be in considerable pain." he said, his voice emotionless behind the mask.

Fire appeared in her eyes, seemingly out of nowhere, and it caught him slightly off-guard.

"Your observation skills are incredible." her voice was acidic and quiet, and he had a feeling both the tone and the response were acquired from somewhere else.

His hands moved to latch against the top of his kevlar vest, and he watched her eyes warily follow the motion.

"You're awfully young to be a rebel." he said, amused.

The fire in her eyes grew.

"You're awfully old, just in general. What are you, like sixty?" she snapped, pressing her hand harder against her injured left shoulder and wincing as she did so.

"Young _and_ brave. Or perhaps stupid. What is your name?" he asked, his voice amiable and mocking as he cocked his head slightly to the side.

She shook her head, ponytail swinging as she did.

"I don't use my name anymore."

"What do they call you then?"

"Scout."

Somehow, he wasn't surprised. He'd seen her come down the drainpipe in the alley as though it were the most natural thing in the world; it made sense that she was able to acquire information undetected.

Slowly, so as not to alarm her, he sat down on the cot, prepared to question her further.

He was totally unprepared for what she did next.

She sprang to her feet with startling speed as soon as he sat down and darted for the open door, moving so fast he almost didn't catch her. His hands closed around her wounded shoulder just in time, applying enough pressure to elicit the long-awaited scream from her lips.

Actually, it was more like a simple cry of pain, but it counted in his mind.

He slammed her against the wall next to the cot and her head bounced off the concrete; his right hand closed around her throat while his left pressed into her wound. She whimpered, the fear in her eyes nearly tangible in it's potency.

"I tried to do this the easy way my dear, but you have just forced my hand. Now tell me, where is your base?"

She lifted her chin, defiantly silent. His hand tightened around her windpipe and she struggled, writhing and clawing against hands that felt no pain.

"Don't... know. They... wanted to... move bases... after... the raid. They'll be long... gone by... now." she struggled, gasping.

Satisfied she was telling the truth, he loosened his grip her throat, knowing there would be bruises marring the youthful skin there later, and left his hand at her neck as a warning.

"Your leader, the one in the mask. What is her name?"

The girl merely shrugged, wincing when his hand pressed harder to her wounded shoulder.

"Don't know."

He was getting a feeling she was making this deliberately difficult for him.

"What do you call her then?"

She bit her lip defiantly and didn't answer, and he pressed against her wound again, her eyes rolling back in her head in pain.

"M-Maestro! Everybody calls her Maestro! Nobody knows her real name, not even her lieutenants, I swear!"

Nodding, he released the pressure as one of his men entered, bearing gauze. He took it, and the man left without a word. She eyed him warily.

"W-what is that?"

He raised an amused eyebrow at her as he pushed her thin, bloodied jacket off of her shoulder, slamming her against the wall again when she struggled.

"Gauze, dear girl. I would have thought you'd known that."

Tears leaked out of the girl's eyes, but she was still defiant.

"Of course I know what it is. I was wondering what you wanted to do with it. But I guess I know now." she whispered as he wrapped the material around her shoulder, bared by the tank top she'd been wearing beneath the jacket. He knew summer clothes were easier to come by since everyone was wrapping up to compensate for the lack of heat in their homes, and considering the rebels lived off of the refuse of the now-fallen society it made sense that she would be wearing it.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked him after he'd finished, staring at him with an oddly calculating look in her eyes. He wondered what it meant.

"You're going on trial in a few minutes, my dear, and you were losing a lot of blood. You may not have even made it to the courtroom if I hadn't. Since I plan on making an example of you and your friends, we can't have that."

She stared at him coldly, seeming to have made a decision based on what he'd just told her.

"You asked about our base?"

He raised an eyebrow, wondering what had prompted this particular line of conversation, especially seeing as how she'd been so adamant about not speaking of it before.

"Yes."

"Your Goons got close yesterday."

This didn't surprise him. He'd snapped more than one neck for the failure, particularly after the rebels had robbed him this morning. What surprised him was that she was telling him.

"Oh?"

"Maestro had someone set that fire as a distraction. You had the right address."

So the girl _was_ a spy after all. He would have bet Bruce Wayne's no-longer-existent fortune that she'd been the one that had found out about the ferries shipping his supplies in from the mainland. He'd have to crack down on Barsad for giving orders where they could be easily overheard.

"And why would you tell me this?"

"I'm about to die, right? Doesn't affect me anymore."

That was a lie if he'd ever heard one. She was fishing for something... but what? He gave her a calculating stare.

"Your Maestro would probably benefit from knowing she had a traitor in her midst, but as you said, you're about to die, so it really doesn't matter, does it?" he said, watching her face carefully for any reaction to his words.

She didn't disappoint, her eyes widening for a single instant at the news before settling back into cold defiance. So she'd suspected a mole, as well as knowing about his shipment and that he'd found the location of her hideout?

_The girl could have had a future in the CIA. _

"No," she said after a moment, "it doesn't. But you should probably know something before you take this insane plan of yours any further. You've never faced anybody like Maestro before, and you have absolutely _no_ idea what you're getting into. When you fall, and you _will_, it'll be because of her."

Bane heard the deep conviction in her voice and knew she believed every word. The Maestro was this girl's idol; she would die defending her.

With a quiet chuckle, he released the girl and turned away.

"My dear girl, I look forward to the challenge."

With that, he left the cell and slammed the door closed, reveling in the echoing finality of the noise.

**~DKR~**

The blueprint of the courthouse, stolen from City Hall after Gotham had first been sacked, fluttered in my hands, and I gave an impatient sigh before pressing it against the alley wall to keep it flat.

_Okay, there should be a window in the back office next to the holding cells. Perfect. _

I quietly slid around the corner, immediately spotting the aforementioned window, which was, mercifully, slightly open. I jumped, my hands just managing to catch the ledge, and pulled myself up, peering cautiously into the room. There was no one inside, just an old desk surrounded by scattered paper and coated with multiple layers of dust.

_This will do nicely._

Silently, I raised myself up and climbed inside headfirst, the lower half of my body following after as I balanced my hands on the rolling chair that had been set against the wall under the window. For a fleeting moment, I was perfectly poised in a handstand.

But, since I'm not a gymnast, my heart flew into my mouth when I began to topple over, the chair slipping from underneath me and landing with a crash. I fell on top of it rather ungracefully, and I swore semi-loudly as my back came into contact with the metal.

_That went well._

With a groan, I sat up and adjusted the black wig that one of the many teenage girls who served as makeup specialists had placed on my head, and blinked to clear the dust from the ancient chair out of my green contacts. Bane most likely assumed I would come for my rebels, (or maybe he didn't; I didn't even plan on coming back for them for a while there) and even if he hadn't seen my face, he'd sure as heck seen my hair and eyes. Since I was trying to be discreet, the mask had to go.

Needless to say, the entire way to the courthouse I'd felt naked, exposed, like everyone could see into my center and know the scars I bore there. I hadn't been the girl without the mask for a very long time.

_Enough messing around. You've got work to do. _

I stood up, popping my fingers and re-adjusting the batons concealed in the legs of my jeans. My cover story if anyone saw and/or felt them was that I had weak legs due to a calcium deficiency; they were braces.

And that's what they would believe, at least until 2:25. I glanced at a clock on the wall of the office.

_1:45._ I had just enough time. Hopefully everybody was getting into position. We couldn't afford to have this go wrong.

I opened the door and peered into the hallway. Nothing, but down the hall there were holding cells, and I could hear crying, moans, and the occasional gasp of pain form within.

_I swear, if any of that is Scout, somebody's leaving this courthouse in a body-bag, code or no code. _

Suddenly, two men, one bearing a machine gun and the other a ring of keys, came into view, and I cracked the door so I could hear.

"Alright," said the first one, "I'm gonna open this door, and you're gonna come out, not give me any trouble, and get in line. It's time for your sentence." the last bit had a light note of mocking in it, and I bristled as the whimpering from the cells grew louder.

_How many of them are there? _

I couldn't see very well from my angle, but it looked like there were maybe fifteen. Most were middle-aged adults, but there were a few elderly men and women, and only three teens that I could see, each with a bloody bandage around an extremity.

_There they are, _I looked them over silently, trying to get a good look at Scout, _at least they fixed them up, the jerks. _

"This way," said the other guard, nudging them forward with the butt of his gun. Some prisoners tried to plead, others only cried louder, but all were ignored as they were literally herded like sheep to the slaughter in a single file line.

Silently as a mouse, I slipped out of the office, following behind and ducking into now-open cells whenever the guard in the back looked about to turn around. They made it out a door and I pursued, keeping up a steady pace until they entered the foyer and stopped at two massive, open doors that I knew lead into the courtroom.

I swallowed. _He_ was in there. I could hear him, speaking in his habitually soft manner to a Goon about when the next group would be brought in.

A shiver of fear raced down my spine; I hadn't heard him since _that night_. Granted, his voice was different without the effects of the toxin on my mind, but I could still detect the same underlying inflections and pitches.

I tried to quell my emotions. This man thrived on fear; it was his heroin and I couldn't afford to let him see it in me.

Absently, I rubbed my right palm again, trying not to think about the scar that lay under the glove.

The guard in back was moving to the front to speak to his companion. I had to move _now_. Deftly, I snuck up behind him, coming within inches of his filthy person, and slipped seamlessly into the line, directly in front of Scout.

She looked like she was in serious pain, gripping her bandaged left shoulder tenderly, but still raised an eyebrow in confusion as I stepped in line. It took me a moment to realize she didn't know who I was without the mask.

_And isn't _that_ ironic?_

"We are young." I whispered quietly to her, and her eyes lit up in hope when she heard the code. She still didn't know I was Maestro, but she definitely knew I was on her side and part of a plan.

The guards in front turned to look at us suspiciously, but turned away after a moment to resume their conversation.

Quietly, I slipped in front of the person in front of me. This would only work if I was put on trial first, and the people in line were only too happy to live a little longer.

The men didn't notice.

Feeling bold, I jumped two more spaces.

The men didn't notice.

_Only three more left..._

Another space.

They didn't notice.

Another space.

The men didn't notice.

My heart pounded in my ears; all the blood rushed to my head and my senses went on high alert. This had to be timed perfectly since the men were directly in front of the first person in line. I also had to pray they weren't paying much attention to him – a man in his late thirties – so they wouldn't notice when I – a girl of nineteen – stood in his place.

"Next!" a voice – _his_ voice – rang from inside the courtroom, nearly making me jump, and both men's heads instinctively snapped in that direction for a split second.

That was all the time I needed.

I slipped in front of the man as though it was a dance, just in time for the guards to look back at me and grin.

"You're up first, girly." said one, as they both grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me into the room.

I looked at the ground, peeking occasionally out of the corner of my eye to scan the crowd. I caught sight of the faces I was looking for and tried to relax as I was shoved to my knees in front of a massive stack of books and suitcases. Around me, the crowd murmured, and from what I could pick up they were wondering what a young girl like me had done to get on Bane's bad side.

_I breathe. That's enough cause for Bane to hate me. _

I didn't look up. I knew who would be there; I had memorized every detail of his face long ago from news reports and articles in the paper.

"State your name." he sounded, to my surprise, almost bored, as though sentencing people to death was the most natural thing in the world.

And then I remembered who was talking and knew that, for him, it was.

I remained silent, not looking up from the ground. The entire purpose of me even appearing was to stall for time.

He gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Your _name_, if you don't mind."

I braced myself.

_Might as well get it over with. _

"My name is May. May Strowe."

With that, I raised my head and looked straight into the piercing blue eyes of Jonathan Crane.

**A/N:** ***Insert super-ominous music here* Hope you enjoyed! I know we didn't see a ton of Crane in this chapter, but there's more where this came from, trust me. :) Did I keep everyone (Bane) in character? Don't hesitate to let me know! (Please be nice, though.)**

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. **

**Also, a contest that I have decided to do periodically: Think up a song that you think describes the mood/tone/setting of this chapter best, and put it in your review. If you win, I'll let you know when I respond to you, and you'll get an OC cameo in the next chapter! I only ask that you keep the song as clean as possible. :) **

**Special thanks to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for editing my chappies and making them presentable enough to post! **

**Special thanks also to **SilverBulletAngel**, **the iconic one**, **VivieAnne**, **Teacupful**, and **Eva Sirico** for reviewing the last chapter. Keep them coming guys!**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	5. The Detective

**For Your Entertainment**

_We're only young and naive still  
We require certain skill  
The mood it changes like the wind  
Hard to control when it begins _

_Can't help myself but count the flaws  
Claw my way out through these walls  
One temporary escape  
Feel it start to permeate_

_We lie beneath the stars at night_  
_Our hands gripping each other tight_  
_You keep my secrets hope to die_  
_Promises, swear them to the sky_

_The bittersweet between my teeth_  
_Trying to find the in-between_  
_Fall back in love eventually_  
_Yeah yeah yeah yeah_

_Chapter IV_

_The Detective_

My entire world had come to a screeching halt, and blood pounded in my ears in time with my frantically racing pulse.

For a moment, I couldn't breathe.

Crane looked much the way he had the last time I'd seen him on the news, save for the fact that he was a tad more disheveled and had straw protruding from his jacket.

He appeared deceptively human, and you'd have to be blind to not concede that he was handsome.

But then again, so was Satan.

His clear blue eyes, like sunlight reflected on ice, tore right through me, and I'm sure my mask would have been irrelevant in the wake of his penetrating stare, but I saw no recognition. This didn't surprise me; even if I hadn't been wearing a wig and contacts, he'd only seen me once, nine years ago.

I fought the urge to tremble; seeing this man had turned me into the frightened twelve-year-old that I had been when he attacked the Narrows.

_There is nothing to fear but fear itself! _A warped, garbled voice shot through my head – a memory from _that night_, and I tensed.

Shaken from my paralysis by anger, I lifted my chin higher, set my jaw, and slammed The Maestro's shields back into place.

"Hiya Doc. How's the life of a judge treating you? Not too well, judging by the hay sticking out of your clothes. Or was that the Scarecrow's wardrobe choice? Tell him hi for me." I began conversationally, my face impassive but my tone light and mocking. I had looked into Jonathan Crane as much as possible, and it hadn't been difficult to find out that he had MPD, multiple personality disorder, and as a result had been placed into Arkham Asylum as a patient this time, not a member of the staff.

His other side, known as Scarecrow, was apparently even more psychotic than he was, and that was saying something.

His eyes narrowed and the court around me murmured in surprise. Behind me, the distinctive sound of Bane's mask hissing caught my attention, and I made myself relax.

_Everything's going according to plan..._

"Miss Strowe, you have been charged with sedition and insurrection, like all the others being sentenced today. It is now time you pay for your crimes. Death or exile; make your choice." his voice was hard, yet smooth, and there was dark hate in his eyes even as he gave no outward acknowledgement to my comments.

Around me, the people murmured again. I smirked and forced myself to look him dead in the eye.

"I have a right to know who charges me."

It was his turn to smirk and he did so, darkly.

"You're a rebel. You have no rights."

"Humor a dying woman." I shot back, acid in my tone.

"The people of Gotham charge you." he said after a brief moment of studying me. It obviously unsettled him that I was unafraid; I wasn't being brave, I was simply completely devoid of fear. All that had drained out of me the minute I started running my mouth.

_Funny how that works, huh?_

"Then let _them_ speak," I said calmly, my eyes never leaving his, "because you have less right than anyone to decide my fate. Or have they forgotten what you did to the Narrows almost nine years ago? How many of you lost loved ones in that attack?" When I heard no response, only shuffling, I tore my eyes away from Crane's impassive ones and clenched my fists.

"How many?" I demanded, louder this time.

Still no one spoke, but several cast uncertain looks at the judge in front of me. I scoffed and raised my chin, disgusted.

_Sheep. All of them. No wonder Bane had such an easy time taking over. _

Crane rolled his eyes.

"If you're quite done, Miss Strowe, we do have several others to sentence today."

"Like the little girl with a bullet in her shoulder that's about to be dragged in here?" I was looking at him, but my statement was directed at the crowd.

It had the desired effect. The room exploded in murmurs of uncertainty and indignation, and I shot Crane a devil-may-care grin to meet his black glare. They may be behaving like animals, but they still had shreds of humanity in them.

"She made her choice to consort with rebels. And if you don't make yours, you'll simply be shot and tossed into the bay." he barked, regaining control of his Kangaroo Court after several slams of his gavel.

I risked a look behind me. Bane was staring at me, the instant our eyes locked I was certain he knew. I don't know how, but something about my mentioning Scout had blown my cover.

_Crap._

"Make your choice, or have it be decided for you!" Crane's voice cut through my mental scrambling.

_It's okay, it's okay, we can still pull this off. I just need to buy a little more time._

I looked down a moment, pretending to show fear, but I was really only estimating the time in my head. If I had it right, everything should be falling into place momentarily. The only question was, was my internal clock right?

"Do you have the time?" I asked, not looking up.

"Why would you need to know that?"

"_I know something you don't know_." I said in a childish, sing-song voice that echoed through the near-silent courtroom eerily.

"Miss Strowe, you won't bargain your way out of this." he warned, preparing to slam his gavel down and have them shoot me in the head so he could move on. I opened my mouth to protest when someone else did it for me.

"Tell her, Dr. Crane. I myself am rather curious as to what we don't know." Bane's voice, metallic and amiable, cut through the room, and Crane's hand paused midway.

I turned to look at the masked menace, tensing when I couldn't read the look in his eyes.

_Oh yeah, he definitely knows I wasn't captured._

Almost absently, I noticed a girl standing next to him, with dirty blonde hair and deep blue eyes, who looked to be about a year older than me, two at the most. She was wearing a coat similar to his, only more feminine, and had a gun tucked down the front of her jeans. But it was obvious from the look on her face she was a captive, not a friend, and didn't approve of anything going on.

Our eyes met and I nodded at her; a motion she returned. I vaguely recalled Scout telling me something about a rebel leader being taken hostage a few days ago, but the thought of her forced me back to the task at hand.

Crane gave a long-suffering sigh and checked his watch.

"2:25. Now what is it you think we need to hear?" he demanded, irritated things weren't proceeding as he wanted.

I slid my hands to the legs of my jeans, where my batons were, and smiled.

"Five, four, three, two..." I counted aloud, noting the way the Goons in the room went on alert. I smirked. It was far too late for that.

_One._

"Bane!"

_Right on schedule. _

All eyes jumped from me to the Goon that burst into the court, panting and sweating rivers of day-old dirt that was plastered to his face. "Group of kids just bombed the Stock Exchange. The fire's spreading fast, headed this way!"

I couldn't keep myself from smiling, knowing my Young would have cleared everyone out of harm's way first. They were utilizing the grenades we'd confiscated that morning rather well.

_Savvy, you are wonderful. _

Bane's eyes snapped to me, and in that second I think he realized he'd underestimated me.

"How many?" he demanded as the room burst into chatter. Crane was staring at me, an unreadable expression in his eyes. I stared back unflinchingly, too empowered to feel afraid anymore.

"Twenty or thirty, but they're moving too fast to count. The leader's a blonde in a mask." the Goon panted, and Bane's eyes shot to me again in surprise.

"If a reckoner reckons a city, who do you reckon reckons the reckoner?" I asked, my eyes not leaving Crane's.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the girl next to Bane gave a small smile at this, seemingly glad someone else was taking a stand, and I wondered if, in another life, we could have been friends.

Bane's eyes were neutral, unthreatened.

"You and your fellow rebels will lose this game of chess."

The room went into shocked silence at the sound of my patronizing chuckle.

"No wonder you can't win. You're not even playing the right game."

He raised an eyebrow above the mask.

"Oh?"

My grin turned slightly wicked.

"This isn't chess. It's Three-card Monte. Where's my queen, Bane?"

Suddenly, there were two loud blasts in immediate succession and the room shook violently with the force of them both. Not a minute later another Goon stumbled in, covered in soot and grime that had very little to do with me.

"Kids... _cough_... bombed the buildings... _cough_... to the east and south of here. Fire... _cough_... spreading. Both lead by girls in a … _cough cough_... mask."

I couldn't keep the wicked smile off my face at the news.

"Three locations, Three-card Monte. Pick a card, any card. Find the queen, Bane. Which one was really the target?"

Not many people know that the secret to Three-card Monte, a popular and age-old con, is that the queen is never actually on the table. It's all about slight of hand and diversions. In this case, Scout was the queen.

Bane's eyes grew hard, and he strode to me, grabbed me by the throat, and lifted me about a foot off the ground.

The room went breathlessly silent, save for the shouts of Goons and Young that echoed from outside, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Crane watching with something like interest.

"How many are you?" he asked, his voice cold beneath the mask.

Out of nowhere, my old name flashed through my head, the one my mother had screamed before I'd run from her that night.

Before I became The Maestro.

I moved to scratch against his hands, gasping for air but still smirking, my batons having been transferred to my sleeves by now.

"We... are... _two_." I rasped, flicking my wrist and feeling the baton slide into my hand. Before anyone could blink, I slung it up and slammed it against his mask, knowing I'd done something right when he grunted and dropped me. I landed in a crouch on the floor, gasped for a second as he recovered, and leaped clear.

_Let's dance._

"The Young of Gotham have decided it's time for _your_ reckoning!" I cried, sliding my other baton into my waiting hand, "Matchstick, now!"

Instantly, a Molotov cocktail went sailing over my head from the crowd and into the stack of books and suitcases that made up Crane's podium. Within seconds, the entire thing was consumed and burning, filling the room with acrid smoke as the fire rapidly spread.

My people had been in the audience the entire time, and I grinned at their efficiency.

The judge himself cursed and scrambled down, his icy eyes meeting mine for an instant, laced with warning and veiled interest, before he disappeared.

_Coward. Smart though. _

People began fleeing for the doors as the fire spread further, and I used the distraction to pull out the whistle hanging on my neck and blow. The sound was shrill and piercing, but didn't hurt my ears because it was musical rather than dissonant.

The Goons in the room rushed to subdue me, firing warning shots in the air so as not to hit their boss, who was now advancing on me again, but they weren't fast enough and neither was he. The Playing Cards materialized out of the crowd, decked out in stolen kevlar and wielding bats, and cleared a path for me to the door as I ducked under Bane's outstretched arm nimbly.

The courtroom was chaos. Civilians rushed for the exit, effectively blocking the Goons, and I couldn't help but think that maybe sheep did have their benefits as I was swept up in the flow.

_So far, so good. _

Smoke filled the air and I ducked low, sensing rather than seeing the remainder of my rebels join me. The smog inhibited the Goons' aim, fortunately for us, so no one else was shot.

I had almost made it out when I felt a massive hand close around my arm, the force of the pull jerking me violently back. I didn't have to look to know who it was, realizing it was Bane long before I was spun to face him.

"You are clever, little girl," he said, his voice somehow still soft and amiable amid the panic around us, "but terribly, terribly foolish. I will crush you and your meaningless rebellion easily." His hands came up to rest on my neck, and I knew exactly what he planned to do.

It was the same thing he'd done to the only scientist who could shut off the nuclear core the day he'd sacked my city.

I didn't struggle, but met his cold gaze calmly.

"You can't win. You can kill me, you can kill a hundred like me, but the Batman will come back. And then you'll wish you'd stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of." I spat as his hands tightened around my throat. Any second now, he would twist, and it would all be over for me.

"The Batman is dead. I killed him myself." Bane responded, his eyes flickering in challenge.

_Liar. _

"Then why is there fear behind your eyes?" I snapped back, knowing as his gaze danced with something close to anger that those would be my last words.

Except that they weren't.

"Bane!"

My captor whirled, seemingly instinctively, at the sound of the frantic voice, feminine in origin, that came from the blonde girl from earlier. As he did, his hold on me loosened considerably, and I squirmed out of his grasp and bolted towards the door like lightning. Bane didn't react fast enough to catch me again.

I did risk a glance back though, and the girl wasn't in any trouble at all. Actually, she was smirking proudly, and I knew instantly she'd done what she'd done to save me. Somehow, she'd known her calling out would grab his attention.

Our eyes met once more, and I moved two fingers away from my forehead in a salute before vanishing into the lobby.

_I wish you luck. _

Chaos worthy of the Joker's tastes reigned in the atrium. Goons were chasing after my rebels and firing into the air so they didn't hit their own men, and they, in turn, were being chased by my Young. Part of the building was burning, and as smoke filled the room I was glad for Matchstick's talents.

_Still according to plan... _

Death metal of the ear-shattering variety blasted over the scene, adding to the absolute pandemonium that had once been known as The People's Court of Gotham. In that second, we were truly a force to be reckoned with, and I knew that whatever we decided to do next, Bane would make it three times more difficult for us.

I spotted several Goons trying to make a barrier around the prisoners, and were violently striking down anyone who attempted to free them with the butts of their rifles and, occasionally, the business end. As a few more of my Young took gunshots and fell, bleeding and screaming, to the floor, a type of quiet rage stole over me.

_Now that, you most certainly should _not_ have done._

"Cymbal!" I called, spotting the dark-haired drummer in the crowd, wielding her drumsticks with the same accuracy as I wielded my batons, "get the prisoners!"

Her deep blue eyes met mine and she nodded, rushing with a few of her friends to take out the Goons. They hoisted their guns, wicked leers on their faces as they watched her come.

They didn't stand a chance.

Cymbal was the backup plan for my backup plan; in other words, when a job went slightly crazy, like this one, she was the getaway car driver. From what I knew of her, she had some serious hand-to-hand combat skills, as did her friends, and with a few well-placed blows from her drumsticks she had the majority of them disarmed. I rushed to help, taking the butt of a remaining gun in the face for my efforts, but a blow from Cymbal eliminated the offending Goon quickly.

I located Scout, pale and barely standing upright from blood loss, among the cowering prisoners as Cymbal and her friends began to help the wounded out of the building, hoisting her into my arms bridal style. She was incredibly light for someone her age, so it was hardly a burden for me to carry her.

As I held her close, I couldn't help but think that Bane was lucky she wasn't dead. He was so very, very fortunate.

Because, separate detonator or not, I would have killed him. It doesn't matter that the Batman wouldn't have done it, or that it was against the Code; if she had died I would have slipped a knife in my jeans instead of my baton and slit his throat with a smile on my face at the first opportunity.

And Crane would have been next.

The rest of the prisoners, now freed, bolted for the exit, with the exception of the other two members of The Young that had been taken that fell into step beside me.

"Fall back!" I yelled, making sure the remaining injured were aided. They didn't have to be told twice, vanishing out blown-out windows and doors that were only half on their hinges, and I followed suit, taking off into the nearest alley and yanking the dark wig off my head.

Everyone had scattered.

The still-conscious Goons tried to pursue, of course, mounting motorcycles and coming after us with incredible speed, but the Young scurried to the rooftops and were no longer visible from the ground as they fled.

I buried myself and Scout deep into the shadows of a dead-end alley, knowing they would never look in a place they thought it would be foolish to hide in.

Everyone had made it out of the building it seemed, even the adults who'd been captured, and I breathed a silent prayer of thanks to Whomever might be watching.

Cradling her trembling form, I watched the Goons come and go on their bikes for a little under two hours, sighing in relief every time one of them came back empty-handed and without bloodstains. Those were the most terrifying hours of my life since _that night_. I knew that if anyone else had been taken, I wouldn't have been able to get them back.

It took me a little time to register the pain in my face; once my adrenaline stopped pumping I realized my nose was bleeding profusely and my lip was split, dripping blood as well. Not to mention I'd probably have bruises in the shape of handprints on my neck in the morning, thanks to Bane.

I was suddenly so tired.

After a while, I decided it was safe to move. I helped Scout onto my back, mindful of her wound, and scaled the drainpipe to the roof. From there, I crossed the roof to the other side, overlooking an unblocked alley, and descended. This was safer than exiting the alley and risk being seen by the Goons right across the street.

I did not look back.

The cold air felt delicious against my skin as relief washed over me, and I lifted my face to the grey sky a moment before continuing towards the new base.

We were safe; we had succeeded.

Scout rested her head against my chest as I resumed carrying her bridal-style, her breathing shallow and uneven. I regretted waiting so long in the alley, but it had been necessary. Her wrapped shoulder was soaked with blood, and I knew I needed to get her to Stitches immediately.

"You're the real Maestro, aren't you? The others were just decoys."

Taken by surprise at her sudden speech, the first thing she'd said since she'd been rescued, I looked down at her.

"Yes, it's me."

"I knew you'd save us." she whispered, closing her eyes.

I stopped dead in my tracks, guilt slamming me in the stomach because, for a while, I wasn't planning on rescuing her. Because I had been leaving her to her demise. Because she never should have been in that position in the first place.

"You did?" I asked softly, continuing my slow pace.

She nodded.

"Yeah."

"How did you know?"

She shifted, eyes still closed and a frown crossing her features as she accidentally put more weight on her wounded shoulder.

"Because it's what the Batman would have done."

I didn't know how to process this, so I opted for not saying anything. For a time, we were silent. She rested, I walked. Then, after a while, she spoke again, her blue eyes snapping open in obvious remembrance.

"Maestro?"

"Yes?"

"While I was there, I did some digging."

I couldn't hold back my chuckle. That was just like Scout. Her life was in peril and she somehow still managed to wrangle information out of her captors.

_She could have had a future in the CIA. _

"And what did you find?"

She looked up at me.

"Bane says we have a mole."

I tensed, stopping suddenly and setting her down so I could look her in the eyes.

"Scout, you talked with him?"

She lowered her eyes, the experience obviously not something she wanted to relive.

"Yes. He's the one who put this bandage on my arm. He asked where our base was, and I told him I didn't know, but I wanted to see how he'd found the address, so I threw him a line. He told me we have a mole."

I gripped her arms gently, mindful of her wound.

"Did he say who it was?"

"No. He knew I was fishing."

I swore and paced a few times in the alley, my mind doing a mental checklist of who I knew I could trust and who I couldn't. As you can probably guess, the latter was an extremely long list, one I didn't have time to examine.

"It's going to be okay, Scout. You'll see." I promised her, before hoisting her back up again and resuming my walk.

We were running out of time.

**~DKR~**

The young officer couldn't do anything but stare at the courthouse, still burning hours after the attack as Bane's men frantically tried to put it out. There were at least three other columns of towering black smoke in the nearby area, and he couldn't help but feel a little awed.

One girl with a ragtag team of kids had done all this.

_One_ girl.

And, if the intel one of his guys had given him was right, he now knew exactly where to find her.

**~DKR~**

The factory was even larger than our last base, extending to three stories and providing so much room that everyone was able to fit away snugly into their own personal hidey-holes, which accounted for the lack of sleeping mats spread all over the walkway as they had been in our last base.

I had a feeling that if the Goons searched here, they'd have a lot harder time finding everyone.

The instant I stepped through the door, Scout in my now-aching arms, I was greeted with celebration on every side. Someone, probably Savvy, pressed my mask into my hands before anyone could get a good look at my face, and I rewarded them all with a rare smile of triumph once I was covered. Thankfully, I had managed to take care of my bloody nose and lip on the way over here, though anyone could still tell I'd been roughed up recently.

"Ladies and gentlemen, The Young of Gotham have found their voice!" I called, feeling particularly triumphant at the moment.

A loud cheer went up, and rock music began blaring through the factory as someone turned the speakers on. We had to be even quieter now that we were closer to the center of town and had gotten under Bane's skin, but the noise still pulsed at a volume loud enough to lose yourself in.

Tomorrow they would be at war again, but tonight they would celebrate having defeated Bane not once, but _twice_ in under twelve hours.

Tonight, they would be young.

"Scout!" Stitches' relieved call cleared a path for her, the kids around me parting like the Red Sea as she ran for her sister, who scrambled out of my arms to meet her. I could tell by the blood on her hands she'd been hard at work for a while now. She looked exhausted, but that didn't stop her from embracing her sister with the force of a freight train.

They cried and hugged and did all manner of sisterly things that made me roll my eyes, but when Stitches looked up at me, her gaze filled with gratitude and tears, I gave her a brief smile.

"Thank you," she whispered, "thank you so much."

I read deep into her gaze and saw the extent of what had once been desperation for her little sister, knowing that she wouldn't have been able to bear the loss of another family member.

Turning away, I shook my head.

"You don't have to thank me."

"The heck I don't." Stitches said firmly, rising to her feet with astounding speed and throwing her arms around me in a hug.

I tensed. In case you haven't noticed, I don't do physical contact. Like at all.

Still, I awkwardly patted her back until she released me and turned to her sister, supporting her as she guided us to a back room that served as our makeshift medical ward and laying her down on a mattress next to several other kids with freshly bandaged wounds. Including the three that had been shot during the raid, seven others had taken bullets to varying extremities, and four of those seven were still waiting to be treated.

I was just grateful none of them had been killed.

Stitches tended to her sister first, undoing the gauze around Scout's shoulder, which was immaculately wrapped and coated in blood. She cringed when her little sister winced.

"I'm so sorry, Scout. I know this is going to hurt, but it looks like the bullet's still inside. I'm going to have to dig it out, and all we have for the pain is liquor."

Scout hesitated, and I knew her reasoning for doing so. She and Stitches were both fairly religious, and were incredibly conservative in their beliefs about alcohol and the like. It was a testament to how much pain she was in that she accepted it, coughing and sputtering at the drink that I knew from experience burned all the way down and numbed the senses incredibly.

While she waited for the liquor (bourbon, I was fairly sure) to take effect, Stitches poured peroxide over the wound, whispering soothing affirmations to her sister when she hissed in pain. One of her helpers handed her a pair of tweezers, and there were tears in Stitches' eyes as she gave Scout a rag to bite down on to keep her from screaming.

Even the mind-numbing effects of the alcohol couldn't dull the pain completely, and the absolute agony on Scout's face was forever burned into my mind as Stitches delicately dug into the wound. Scout writhed in torment, and I knew she would have been screaming if she weren't biting on the rag so hard.

My hatred for Bane had skyrocketed; for a dark moment I was nearly consumed by it. I swore to myself he would never leave Gotham alive, no matter what happened. What kind of monster would put a little girl through something like this?

_But is he the _real_ monster here?_ whispered a dark voice from the back of my mind, _Who put her in that position in the first place? Why was she even on the raid? _

I was about to leave the room, unable to take any more, when Stitches finally withdrew the tweezers. A round metal object, shining with blood, was clasped between the ends, and she threw it away with a violent curse before wrapping her sister's arm tightly and removing the rag from her mouth.

She had bitten it in half from the pain, and something inside me broke.

I fled.

_Just like that night, _my inner voice taunted, _all you ever do is run, you coward. You left your mother to die alone, just like you nearly left Scout. It took a sobbing girl on her knees to get you to finally go after her. How can you pretend to be any better than Crane when all you do is run when things get tough? _

The air was suddenly too stifling, and I climbed a rickety back staircase to the second level that gave me a good view of the factory floor, much like the warehouse we had vacated. The noise level from my celebrating Young was, while not intense, still fairly loud, and instead of soothing me as it normally did it was actually giving me a headache.

I was suddenly so tired, and for the first time in a while, I wanted to cry.

"Maestro?" Savvy's voice called from behind me, sounding like a concerned parent, and I turned to her, the extent of my exhaustion showing in my eyes.

"Hey." I greeted, attempting to sound casual. She saw right through it and sighed.

"You haven't eaten or slept in over twenty-four hours, and I know because I've been keeping track. Come on."

She lead me to a back office, lit only by a small window in the corner and emptied of everything but a mattress, complete with a blanket and pillow.

"Get some rest. They'll keep for a while, and I'll bring in some food later, okay? Don't worry; I'll keep them quiet too."

I was about to protest, but something told me it would be futile to argue. It usually was when Savvy was in one of her moods.

With a sigh, I acquiesced, taking off my boots, jacket, and mask, before setting my batons next to them and peeling the unnaturally green contacts out of my eyes. Those I threw into a corner of the room, where they were never to be found again. Beauty products like that were a dime a dozen now, mostly because nobody was really concerned about their appearance anymore.

I guess only having four months to live – had we really been fighting an entire month? – seriously put things into perspective for some people.

After this was done, I shook my hair out of its ponytail and lay under the blanket, feeling my body relax. But I kept tensing, waiting for the other shoe to drop and break my peace.

Seeing this, Savvy crouched down and looked me in the eyes.

"Maestro, you saved them; you deserve a few hours of rest. You're of no use to them if you fall unconscious from exhaustion in the middle of a fight."

_She has a point_, I thought as she left, wondering what would have happened if that occurred today. I made a mental note to set up a contingency for it.

With a sigh, I burrowed down deeper into the mattress, body curling instinctively into the fetal position beneath the blanket and closing my eyes.

A lullaby from another life began playing through my head, and I dreamed of fire-breathing horses and blue, blue eyes...

**~DKR~**

It was dark outside when I awoke, and my wristwatch showed the time to be around eleven o'clock.

I had slept for six hours straight.

With a frown, I stood up and put on my effects, glad for the small lantern someone had brought in that not only illuminated the room, but also a plate of food and a glass of water by the door.

I pounced on it, ignoring my normal aversion to giving myself more calories than needed. If it weren't more about keeping fit than my actual appearance, some might have said I had anorexia.

And there was always someone else who needed it more than me, anyway.

However, right now, I needed the food to stay upright, and since I was fairly certain my stomach was digesting itself, I succumbed to its complaining and indulged.

_I can hardly remember the last time I ate a full sandwich. _

Once I'd wolfed down the food at an admittedly inhuman speed, I pulled my hair back and left the room, ready to be the invulnerable Maestro again. I was not, however, ready for the sight that met my eyes when I looked over the balcony at the factory floor.

They were drinking.

A group of still-partying fifty were _drinking_.

Don't get me wrong, I had nothing against them doing what they wanted on their own time. But what I did have something against were hangovers. That's the quickest way to render a rebel useless.

The music was still pulsing in the background, though at a much quieter pace than before, and they were dancing like it was a nightclub instead of a hideout.

I could see Savvy sitting against a wall, eyes closed, and snoring loudly. Part of me was angry with her, and the other part, the larger part, felt guilty because she needed to sleep and eat too.

I sighed and blew the whistle around my neck, and the dancing and drinking stopped immediately as everyone froze. After another second, the music cut with a loud metallic squeal, and all was silent.

"Enough, all of you. You've had your fun. Get to sleep. We'll gather intel and get back to planning in the morning."

Savvy, who had snapped awake at the sound of my whistle, gave me a sheepish look, and I merely shook my head at her with a wry smile on my face. I could never hold anything against Savvy. She'd done far too much for me.

There was a lot of grumbling, but I implemented my infamous drop-dead glare and they headed to their hidey-holes without further complaint.

Save for one.

"Hey, Maestro!"

It was Rook, and I could tell he was drunk even a floor above him. I gave a long-suffering sigh.

"Yes?"

"Haven't heard you play anything in a while. C'mon, play something for us!"

I opened my mouth to protest when agreement on all sides made me snap it closed again. Eagerness was written on every face I could see lying on their mats, and I heard it in the voices of those I couldn't.

"Play for us!"

"Just one song?"

"One of your originals!"

I shifted.

"What do you want me to play?"

The immediate majority called for violin, while one or two called for guitar, and one, whom I'm fairly certain was drunk, called for the spoons.

I gave another sigh and conceded as a young girl of about thirteen offered me her instrument to use and went to sit back down.

"Alright, violin it is. One song though."

With that, I tucked the violin under my chin, took a moment or two to tune it, and, slowly, drew the bow across the strings. It wasn't my Stradivarius, but it was in very good condition and my fingers found their way around the strings as expertly as ever.

For the first time that night, I was able to forget.

The music consumed me; it spun and swirled around the factory and seemed so tangible you could almost inhale it. _This_ was my high.

Around me, the still-conscious rebels listened, awed and enraptured looks on their faces. Some were curled onto their mats, letting my music lull them into sleep.

The bow slid across the strings with ease and I'm not sure how long or how many songs I played. For a second, just a single instant in time, the world had righted itself.

And then the other shoe dropped.

"Maestro!" Jazz's voice startled me so much the bow slipped and shrieked across the strings in a sound that resembled one a dying cat might make.

_Maestro? But my name is... oh. Right. _

I looked up to see my lieutenant standing in front of two other boys, each holding a single figure with a black bag on his head and his hands bound behind his back. It was obvious he was an adult, and I could tell by his posture he was listening intently to everything that was going on.

Murmurs broke out among the rebels still awake, and within seconds I slid down the rope someone had strung up between the first and second floor, the impact of my boots hitting concrete echoing off the walls. They fell silent.

"Who is he?" I demanded, my black eyes tearing a hole through my lieutenant. He shifted, uncomfortable.

"He's a cop, Maestro."

More murmurs, but one last glare from me shut them up for good.

"And why, pray tell, did you bring him here?"

"He approached one of our scouts and started asking about you. Said he had somethin' important to discuss." Jazz replied, giving me his patented "yeah, right" look. My lieutenant hated cops, and distrusted them with a wariness that rivaled my own.

Carefully, I strode over to the man, studied his hooded form a moment, and then, without further preamble, yanked the bag off his head.

We were about the same height, I noticed, as his dark blue eyes blinked to adjust to the light and met mine.

Then my hormones kicked in and I noticed he was handsome, an observation I quickly shoved to the back of my mind once I remembered I didn't exactly care.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" I demanded, stance braced for a fight.

He looked at me a moment, his firm jaw set and his eyes piercing mine.

"I'm Detective John Blake. I think we need to talk."

**A/N:** ***more ominous music here* Hope you liked! Again, not a lot of Crane or Blake time, but I swear more is coming. More rising-action-y type things will be happening in the next few chapters. Trust me. :) **

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. **

**The blonde girl from the courtroom scene is not mine, she is used by permission as a tribute to **Paradisaical185**, and her brilliant story, **_**She Rises**_**, which you simply must check out. **

**Congratulations to **Eva Sirico** for winning the song contest and her OC cameo, Cymbal! **

**The song at the beginning is **_**Young Blood**_** by The Naked and Famous (which I do not own), and if you want to hear what I imagined Maestro playing towards the end, look up **_**Crystallize**_** by Lindsey Stirling on YouTube (I don't own this either). :)**

**Special thanks to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! **

**I will also give virtual nachos to anyone who caught my slightly altered **_**Princess Bride**_** reference.**

**Special thanks also to **takara410**, **CrystalMethCupcakes**, **C'estMoiLiz**, **the iconic one**, **Slytherin's Strumpet**, **Eva Sirico**, and **SilverBulletAngel** for reviewing, as well as everyone who favorited, alerted, or participated in the contest! Your songs may be used later, but no cameos will be awarded until the next contest. **

**Thanks for reading, and my next chapter will be up soon! REVIEW to your heart's content! **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	6. The Meeting

**For Your Entertainment**

_You're so cold  
Keep your hand in mine  
Wise men wonder while  
Strong men die  
Show me how it ends it's alright  
Show me how defenseless you really are  
Satisfied and empty inside  
Well that's alright, let's give this another try  
If you find your family, don't you cry  
In this land of make-believe, dead and dry  
You're so cold, but you feel alive  
Lay your hand on me one last time _

_Chapter V_

_The Meeting_

I leaned against a concrete pillar at the back of the warehouse, attempting to show more ease than I was currently feeling. I haven't often been in close proximity to cops, but whenever it's happened in the past it's usually ended badly. Not to mention the detective was an adult, in my base, near my sleeping rebels, and I didn't trust him as far as I could throw him.

And since it was likely that I couldn't even lift him, that wasn't very far.

In front of me was the planning table, and John Blake was currently standing on the other side, his hands still bound. My lieutenants had taken their places on my right and left, and in this position, with me the picture of nearly-bored relaxation and them tensed wariness, we truly looked like a force to be reckoned with.

Every so often his face would slip from caution to wry amusement, as though he had to continually shake himself to remember that we were only kids. He looked like a man watching children play pretend in the backyard, fighting off monsters or aliens and only faking the seriousness of our situation. That bothered me, and I had half a mind to show him where our injured were resting to give him an idea of just how serious we were.

"Can I get you anything to eat or drink?" I asked him casually, inspecting my nails and cringing when I noticed that practically all of them were broken.

He raised an eyebrow, as though the question had caught him off guard, before replying.

"No, thanks. That's not why I'm here."

I rolled my eyes.

"No, you're here to recruit me and my Young, but that's never gonna happen, so I figured I may as well be polite."

He frowned.

"Why won't you help us?"

"Who's 'us'?"

"The commissioner, other cops, anyone else who's willing to join our cause."

I couldn't hide my grimace of distaste.

"All adults?"

"Naturally."

I gave a small smirk at his reply and made a wide, sweeping gesture that was meant to encompass the entirety of the warehouse and the mostly-slumbering rebels therein.

"Oh yes, _naturally_. How stupid of me to think anyone under twenty could accomplish anything."

Beside me, Jazz was grinning proudly, and Savvy shifted, a smirk of her own on her lips. I winked at them.

"Gloating is unbecoming, guys. Try not to demean him too badly, would you?" I said, then turned back to Blake. "I'm not joining you. End of discussion. If you have any further questions, please make an appointment with the receptionist at the front desk. Jazz, if you please?" I asked sweetly, turning away and silently wondering where I'd left that violin from earlier. Behind me, I heard Jazz getting ready to place the bag over Blake's head and lead him away.

"Maestro, please wait." the detective called suddenly.

_I think I like the way he says my name. _

I stopped, easily catching the desperation in his tone, but didn't turn around.

"All of Gotham knows who you are now," he continued when I didn't speak, "you've shown them you're capable of rattling Bane's cage, and they'll rally to you faster than they'll rally to the commissioner. We need your help."

I clenched my fists, but still didn't turn to face him.

"People aren't coming to Gordon for a reason, Detective. You know why? Because he's a _liar_. He _lies_. That's the very same reason I won't be throwing in my lot with him. Have a nice life."

"I know he lied, I'm angry with him too, but at least come back with me. Let me show you what we're planning before you turn us down. We need your help." Blake pleaded.

I turned my head slightly, allowing him to see only half of my face.

"We're done here."

"Maestro-"

"We're _done_."

I heard a few other boys join Jazz to lead Blake away, and I headed to check up on Stitches, forcing the memory of his imploring, endlessly deep blue eyes out of my head.

_We take orders from the Batman and no one else. It's part of The Bat Code, Maestro, and you _know_ that in a roomful of adults you'd be the one taking orders. And from Gordon, no less. So _do_ try and keep from letting a good-looking guy get under your skin, huh?_

I forced back another grimace at the thought and entered the room currently serving as our medical ward.

Stitches was curled up next to her sister, their arms wrapped around one another as they slept. Everyone in the room was wiped out, it seemed, and for a moment I just stood in the darkened doorway, peering into the black-as-night room and letting the stillness wash over me.

"Maestro?" Savvy's whisper jolted me into focus and I turned to her.

"Yes?"

She looked at me hesitantly.

"I... I think you should go to see Gordon." At my incredulous stare, she held up her hands. "Just listen for a sec, okay? I'm not saying you should join them; I'm not even saying you should give them a chance. But wouldn't it be beneficial to see what they're planning so we know how to stay upwind?"

I turned on my heel and walked away, my lieutenant close behind.

"No, Savvy. I'm frankly not sure I could trust myself in a room with him and not act on my desire to rip out his spleen and show it to him."

Savvy made a sickened face.

"Okay, ew! Really Maestro? I understand he lied, but can't you at least _see_ why he might have done it? And even if you can't, please be less descriptive about your violent homicidal fantasies, would you? Seriously, you need help. As in, help of the _psychiatric_ variety."

I rolled my eyes and climbed the back staircase to the second level.

"Oh? And who would you suggest I see about this issue, hmm? Dr. Crane, perhaps? Yes, I can't see _that_ ending badly for anyone." I bit back sarcastically, gaining slight pleasure from bantering with my lieutenant like this, even if that particular name _did_ still send chills down my spine.

The truth was, while I probably wouldn't ever assault the commissioner, the thought of being in his company angered me. I _could_ understand why he lied about the Batman being a murderer, but that didn't make it right. The series of stupid decisions he'd made leading up to Gotham's sacking hadn't exactly endeared him to me either. I mean seriously, in what conceivable way was sending every cop in Gotham into the sewers considered a _good_ idea?

I leaned on the banister, looking down at the first level of the warehouse thoughtfully.

"Maestro, I really think you should go." Savvy said, taking a position similar to mine next to me.

I sighed and toyed with my ponytail, weighing the options in my mind. Her comment about staying upwind of the trouble had actually been a pretty good point. Or, conversely, if they launched their plan, I could also figure out how to fit my Young into it, if I wanted.

Plus, a small part of me wanted to show off to the older men that I had been able to do more damage with a group of unarmed children than they had with armed adults.

Okay, maybe a big part.

"Alright," I conceded, "Tomorrow. But I want to go alone."

"What? Why?" Savvy demanded, turning abruptly to face me, "That's crazy! I'm your lieutenant, it's my job to go with you! What if something happens?"

"One always escapes easier than two." I said quietly, and she knew I was right. That, however, did not stop her from pressing.

"So what prompted this? Easier to escape or not, it's unlike you to not take at least one other person for backup. What happened?"

I turned to her.

"We definitely have a mole. It's been verified."

She paled.

"How do you know?"

I chewed my lip.

"Apparently Bane talked with Scout. He told her we've got one, probably because he assumed she was going to die anyway. I guess it's like tradition for the villain to monologue, huh?"

She ran a hand through her hair, visibly paling at the idea of one of our youngest members getting up close and personal with the masked menace himself.

"I'm guessing we don't have a name?"

I shook my head.

"No. Scout said he knew she was trying to get intel, so he was pretty tight-lipped about it. If we do have one, I don't want them knowing any more than necessary. When Scout heals, I'll need to have her spy detail keep an eye on The Young, as well."

We were silent for a moment, weighed down with the enormity of what we'd just discussed. It wasn't all that hard for me to believe we had a traitor in our midst, but that was simply because I don't trust easily. However, this was obviously a blow to Savvy, who knew the rebels on a more personal level than I did. I imagined the idea of _any_ of them selling us out stung her deeply.

My eyes raked over the mats of sleeping rebels as I silently wondered which of them it could be. There were so many, and all of them had opportunities to betray us. However, the real question was _why_. Helping Bane win would only be signing their own death warrant, and you don't join a rebellion if you're suicidal.

Why would somebody want us to lose?

**~DKR~**

Scout was wide awake the next morning, antsy from being immobile for so long and irritable towards anyone who forced her to stay abed. Over the past month, her body had become used to constant activity, only sleeping for a random few hours at a time, and I knew lying still, combined with the pain her shoulder must be inflicting on her, was probably torture.

She made such a fuss about it that I eventually just told Stitches to let her up, provided she kept her arm in a makeshift sling at all times, changed her bandages regularly, and took it slow. I even had Savvy tail her a couple of times to make sure she wasn't leaving the base or climbing the ropes to other floors.

I could see how much pain she was still in, but I understood why she didn't just let herself rest.

_When you rest, you have time to remember. My encounter with Bane isn't exactly something I'm eager to recall either. _

Aside from her wounded arm, she was sporting a collar of bruises, not unlike my own, around her neck, and I had to fist my hands extra tight to keep from hitting something when I'd first noticed them.

_What did Bane do to you?_

My watched chimed suddenly, snapping me out of my near-homicidal rage, and sighed, calling her, my lieutenants, and Stitches over to me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Matchstick watching me as they gathered, an indiscernible expression on her face. I shot her a questioning look, laced with warning, and she quickly made herself scarce.

"Listen," I greeted, turning my attention back to the four rebels in front of me and nibbling on a slice of bread slathered in peanut butter, "I'm going to Gordon. I need-"

"Maestro, you said you weren't going! They've not shown any interest in helping us before, so why should we help them?" Jazz interrupted, earning himself a glare from me that he bore unapologetically.

"I don't like it any more than you do, Jazz, but, if you think about it, we _are_ on the same side. We're trying to achieve the same thing for the same reasons."

He scoffed doubtfully but didn't say anything else.

I looked at Scout, who lifted her chin, eager to do something.

"Scout, do we know where Gordon's made his base?"

She nodded.

"I've never seen him out on the street and neither have the others, which is hardly surprising because the price on his head is like insanely high, but I've seen a couple of cops going in and out of a restaurant a few blocks from main street and I'm pretty sure that's where he is. They also seem to go to Wayne Tower a lot, which reminds me-"

"Scout," I interrupted her excited rambling, holding up a hand, "I just need to get to his base."

She nodded sheepishly.

"They're in my notes. I'll see if I can find it."

As she left to find her notebook, one that probably contained more secrets than I cared to know about, Stitches turned to me.

"Be careful, okay? There's gonna be a lot of heat on the streets for the next few days after what we did to Bane, and, next to Gordon, you're probably the one he wants most now. Just... lay low."

I nodded at her, slightly touched by her concern, and looked to my lieutenants as she went back to the medical ward to change bandages.

"I don't know how long this will take. I'll try and be back before nightfall, otherwise I'll send word, but if something goes wrong..." my voice trailed off and Savvy finished for me, as usual.

"Use Contingency Duet. I know."

Jazz shifted, an irritated scowl on his face.

"I still don't like this, Maestro. We can't trust them. They're gonna sell us out."

I fixed my dark gaze on him coolly.

"In case you've forgotten, we're already _being_ sold out. That would be the exact reason I'm going alone. Do me a favor and leave the worrying to me, yeah?" I asked as Scout scampered back over to us, brandishing her notebook triumphantly.

Once she showed me the address, a restaurant I recognized as one of the places that had been kind enough to give me food every so often before Gotham fell, I gave a few last-minute directions and finished my breakfast.

"Savvy, we're gonna stop patrolling for a few days. When the scouts come in to change shifts, keep them here. Stitches is right, there's too much heat out there right now."

She blinked at me.

"What about the cops in the sewers, and the families-?"

"-who we can't help if we're dead. It's only for a day or so. They'll manage. It's not like the cops aren't getting supplies anyways." I reassured her, striding calmly to the exit. "Just manage things on this end until I get back."

She acquiesced reluctantly, gave me a last, lingering look of worry, and stalked off, Jazz in tow. Scout stayed with me until I reached the threshold of the warehouse, her brow creased in thought as she stared at the ground.

"Scout," I began hesitantly, drawing her attention back to me, "how much do you know about Blake?"

She cocked her head at me curiously, ponytail swaying as she did so.

"Not a lot, actually, but only because I never bothered to look. A lot of the kids say he used to live at the Boy's Home until he aged out. Went on to become a cop, and was a rookie up until a few months ago when Gordon made him a detective for saving his life. I'm pretty sure he was investigating something related to Bane aboveground when all the cops were trapped in the sewers, which is why he wasn't with them."

I blinked at her.

"That's 'not a lot'?"

She shrugged casually, then winced as the movement pulled on her damaged shoulder.

"Like I said, I wasn't really digging. You want me to?"

A pair of dark blue eyes sprang into my memory unbidden, and I frowned.

"Yeah, but only after you've been given the clean bill of health by your sister, okay?" I asked, staring at her knowingly.

She pouted.

"That'll take _ages_, Maestro! Please, can I dig around? I need _something_ to do!" she pleaded.

I sighed, feeling my resolve weakening at the sight of her imploring eyes.

"Fine, but _only_ in the base. You do _not_ leave this factory until I give a personal all-clear, do you understand? And you get plenty of rest in the meantime, got it?"

She nodded eagerly before scampering off.

"You got it, Maestro!"

I watched her leave for a moment, feeling a pang in my chest yet again at the sight of someone so young in this place.

I left the factory and did not look back.

**~DKR~**

The former commissioner heaved a tired sigh as he entered the restaurant where he and his men had taken up base, several of his followers behind him. They were still wary of him, he knew, as a direct result of the Harvey Dent incident, and it was no secret that they were far more loyal to Detective Blake.

This line of thought only prompted another, more subdued, sigh, the reminder of last night's failure, relayed through the aforementioned detective, fresh in his mind. It wasn't that he'd expected The Maestro to help, per se, he'd never played all his cards on that, but he had at least expected her to _consider _it. Her outright refusal of Blake's offer had surprised him. But then, he'd been dealing with her and her group of rebels for several years now; granted, her group had been exponentially smaller, but still formidable. She'd made it perfectly clear then, as she had now, that she was loyal to no one but the Batman.

Gordon wasn't sure what to think about the reliability of the Caped Crusader at the moment. He knew nothing short of death would keep him from helping the city, so he was either lying dead in a gutter (more likely the sewers, considering) or Bane was keeping him contained somewhere else for an unknown purpose.

That was unlikely, and highly stupid on Bane's account, Gordon thought with something like a mixture of sadness and amusement, trying to take his loss like the rest of the city, merely the loss of a protector, rather than the loss of a friend. Albeit a strange, lethal sort of friend, but a friend nonetheless.

Gordon switched on the light, ready to lead his men through another day of survival, and started at the sight that met his eyes.

There, at his planning table with her boots propped up casually over a map of the city as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do, sat a girl wearing a mask lined with music notes.

_The Maestro. _

He'd only caught glimpses of her before now, a flash of blonde hair here, a wink of charcoal eyes there, lines of music arcing above a bat symbol as the only witness to her deeds while the police futilely attempted to apprehend her.

Behind him, his men snapped their guns into firing position, but Gordon waved them off as a slow, lingering smirk graced her features. She was twirling a single conductor's baton idly between the fingers of her right hand, and he got the funny feeling that if he'd been listening to her thoughts, the dulcet tones of Mozart would have been playing in the background.

"Morning, Comm-is-sion-_er_," she began in a mocking voice, drawing out his title much the way the Joker had eight years before, an act he instinctively knew was deliberate, "you wanted an audience. Here I am." she spread her arms grandly, the smile on her face changing to something slightly malicious and definitely vindictive.

He was getting the distinct feeling she didn't like him, but given her unconcealed loyalty to the Batman he didn't have a difficult time guessing why. Though it had been the Batman's decision to make himself into a criminal in order to protect the Dent Act, Gordon didn't expect her to know that.

"You've decided to join us?" he asked, coming towards her cautiously. While she gave no external sign of anything more than indifference at his movement, her eyes tracked him with the expert wariness of someone used to being the prey.

She fixed him with a look that could probably have killed small and/or weakened animals.

"I've decided to _listen_. However, I have an _unbelievably_ short attention span, so it would be advisable for you to cut directly to the chase. What do you want?"

Her cockiness was almost tangible, but it hardly surprised him. With a reputation like hers, he figured she had a good enough reason to feel superior.

"We need your help." Gordon cursed himself for fumbling and tried to rearrange his thoughts; this didn't normally happen but he had been woefully unprepared for this meeting this early in the morning. She _had_ said she wasn't coming, after all.

"So I gathered." her tone was all bite with no pretense of civility, and he sighed, knowing this was going to be a long conversation.

Gordon opened his mouth to reply when Blake entered, gasping for breath. He immediately started, much the way he himself had, at the sight of Maestro.

"You came!" he exclaimed, still panting.

The girl, (or possibly young woman; her age was difficult to guess because of the mask) rolled her ebony eyes with something similar to exasperation.

"Your observation skills are _incredible_." Sarcasm, laced with a tinge of venom, oozed from every syllable, and he guessed from the tone of voice she used that it was something she said often. "Listen, despite what you people seem to think, I have a responsibility to my rebels, and consequently things to _do_. So quit wasting my time and get on with it."

Now that he looked closer, Gordon could see a collar of bruises circling her neck, and the corner of her lower lip was slightly swollen and bore a small cut. Considering she'd gone up against Bane only yesterday, it wasn't exactly hard to guess how she'd acquired them and that she'd gotten off lucky.

"We have a plan to locate the nuclear reactor. My men have been at it for weeks." he began without further preamble, trying to ignore the twist of satisfaction in his gut when he saw how the words had taken her off guard. She tensed visibly, but recovered her confident air in nanoseconds.

"Everyone knows the reactor is kept on one of the three trucks patrolling the city at all times; trucks, I might add, that are guarded by tanks identical to the Batman's. Good luck getting through." she said as casually as though they were discussing the weather. However, he saw the glint of interest in her eyes and knew he had her attention.

"We have equipment that can scan the radiation coming off of the reactor through the truck, subsequently ruling out the decoys, but in order to stop the vehicle we need to get the tanks out of the way. That's where you come in."

Maestro scoffed, moving her boots from the table to the floor and actually assuming a position of solemnity.

"Please. You want me and my Young to join you simply for the purpose of diversion? Tell me you're joking."

"I know how you pulled off the Court raid yesterday. You distracted Bane's men, spread them thin. That's what needs to happen here. They won't know you're working with us; that's our advantage."

She opened her mouth, probably to snap back a biting reply, but the voice that split the silence was not hers.

"Actually, your plan won't work very well. They switch up the trucks every few days." All eyes turned to the back door, where a young girl with strawberry-blonde hair and her left arm in a sling stood, blushing with something that looked like guilt.

Maestro leapt to her feet, eyes widening in recognition as she heard the words, and it didn't escape his notice that she placed herself between the girl and his men as she whirled to face the newcomer.

And she did _not_ look happy.

**~DKR~**

I was _not_ happy, and it must have shown on my face because Scout was practically cowering in front of me.

"_Scout_," I hissed through clenched teeth, "What. Are. You. _Doing_. Here?"

She looked down and away.

"I was worried, and I wanted to help."

A quiet anger filled me, but I could see she was swaying on her feet in an effort to stand up, still weak from her injury.

"We're gonna have a conversation you won't enjoy later, but in the meantime, _sit_." I hissed again, pointing to the chair I had just vacated.

She slunk past me, her head lowered in shame.

"Who's this?" Gordon asked, the expression on his face a cross between amusement and concern, the latter due most likely to the sight of her arm in a sling.

"My scout," I said simply, still glaring at her, "and she was supposed to stay behind. In fact, I distinctly remember _ordering _her to do so."

She stared holes into the maps displayed in front of her, and I refused to let myself feel guilty for the tears I saw sparkling in her eyes. I had risked everything to keep her safe yesterday, as had several others. It was nothing but selfish of her to risk her life and/or health again so soon. I knew her intentions were completely innocent (Scout was incapable of any kind of treachery; that would break some law of physics or something), but she had a bad track record of not thinking before she did things.

"I'm really sorry Maestro, I was just planning on listening and not letting them see me, but I heard him mention the trucks and I remembered that I'd seen them tracking before and knew they weren't doing it right. I wanted to help."

I sighed and let the anger drain out of me, to be replaced with something like exasperated resignation. Much like Savvy, it was impossible to remain angry with her for long.

"We'll talk about it later, Scout."

Blake looked at her, his eyes gentle.

"How would you do it, then?"

She looked to me, silently asking my permission to relay the intel she had. I inclined my head from her to Gordon, a silent question, and she followed my line of sight, her eyes lingering on the time-worn face of the man her mother had died to protect.

The briefest flash of sorrow passed through her face, and my heart broke for her. Then it was gone, her chin was up, and she bore a look of determination not unlike my own.

"You're too disorganized," she lectured, as though she was the more experienced one of the lot, "you have different men track different trucks at different times. I would know; my detail's been watching you." Her voice was composed and superior, and caught nearly every adult in the room almost laughably off-guard.

"How old are you, exactly?" asked one of the men in the back, who'd been particularly quick to level his gun at me when he and Gordon first entered. I couldn't resist the urge to sneer at him as I moved to perch on the table Scout was sitting behind, keeping my body as a barrier between her and the adults at all times.

She lifted her chin higher, a reaction I knew also came from me.

"I'll be thirteen in April."

A few men chuckled in disbelief, while other's faces grew graver still. The unspoken implication was there.

_If we don't succeed, she won't live to see her next birthday._

I locked eyes with Blake, suppressing a shiver at the way his ocean-blue gaze tore straight through me.

_This is why I fight, _I silently willed him to understand, _this is why Bane can't win. She _has_ to have a chance. _

To my surprise, he nodded, an expression of respect on his face that hadn't been there before.

If my stomach did an adolescent backflip at this realization, (which it _didn't, _I assure you) I ignored it and turned back to Scout, who was still explaining her plan to Gordon.

"You need someone to track the trucks at all times. The Goons can't drive around 24/7, they have to change shifts at some point. That's your best window of opportunity. I _know_ that the reactor changes cars every few days," here she winced, "but I don't know where they stop to actually make the switch. However, from the glimpses we've been able to get inside the windows, it looks like they only rotate about three Goons to each car on different days of the week. This makes your jobs easier, because I found out specific drivers usually stick to specific routes. As for the tanks," she bit her lip, as though ashamed to reveal that there was more information that she didn't yet know, "we haven't worked out who drives them or how many Goons rotate driving them. I can find out for you, but it'll take some time, because we haven't really been focused on the reactor, to be honest."

There was almost thirty seconds of stunned silence following her monologue, and I leaned back and examined my nails as I waited for them to recover, a smirk on my face.

"It's called the 'Scout Effect'. You get used to it."

Scout blushed and lowered her head, from pleased embarrassment rather than guilt this time.

"How...?" Blake cleared his throat and tried again, "how do you know all that?"

Scout shrugged and toyed with a crimson marker on the table idly.

"I've got good spies working with me. You can find out anything if you're in the right place at the right time, and you happen to be small enough."

Don't let Scout's modesty fool you; she _lead_ a group of spies, all of them older than her. They answered to her when it came to reconnaissance, and there had been zero complaints about her age once she brought back her first piece of major intel.

"What happened to your arm?" Gordon asked suddenly, an almost fatherly expression coming over his face. It occurred to me that he had a daughter who was around Scout's age; his wife had taken her and their son when she'd left him a few years ago.

I refused to pity him, remembering that it was his fault she was here in the first place, (besides, if I had family, I certainly wouldn't want them here right now) and scowled.

"Bane happened, what else is new?" I snapped, the tension in the room rising dramatically at the irritation in my voice.

I could feel Scout's eyes on me, but she didn't say anything. She knew I hated Gordon, but I usually dialed it back whenever she or her sister was around, out of respect for the sacrifice their mother had made.

_Too bad for her, _a dark voice whispered, _she wanted to come here, she'll have to deal with it. _

As bad as this may sound, I agreed. I was going to do this my way, regardless of my audience.

"Listen," I began as an idea crossed my mind, "my Young and I received about twenty crates of ammunition when we raided the ferries yesterday, ten of which contained guns that we have no use for."

"Why not?" asked a man in the back, clearly lacking in brain cells.

I fixed my signature drop-dead glare in his general direction.

"It's against our Code. I refuse to stain the hands of teenagers with the blood of the scum-sucking _dirtbags_ that invaded my city. They aren't worth the nightmares it would give them." I looked back at Gordon. "You want the guns, or not?"

My offer was there, unspoken and hanging between us like a cloud.

_I'll help you, but we'll do this my way._

He looked at Blake, and they nodded in unison.

"Yes."

I turned to Scout firmly, rising to make my position on the matter clear to her.

"Scout, listen to me carefully. Go back and tell my lieutenants everything, and have The Playing Cards bring the guns here. No one else gets this information, got it?" I asked, and she stood and nodded.

I narrowed my eyes at her.

"If you see anyone who even _remotely_ resembles a Goon, get the heck out of dodge and freaking _hide_, do I make myself clear? Keep to the shadows and don't stray on the main roads. When you get to the base, you stay there, got it?"

She nodded dutifully, and I could see the sincerity in her eyes this time.

"Yes, Maestro, I promise."

I nodded at her, and she left.

When I turned back, I noticed Gordon watching me. I met his gaze with a challenge in my own.

"Go on your rounds," he called to the men around him in an obvious attempt to clear the room, "and be careful." The men nodded and left, shooting suspicious glances at me all the while.

When they finally left, it was just me, Gordon, and Blake left in the room, and I smirked at them as I took my previous seat. They joined me after a moment, pulling up chairs on the opposite side of the table.

"You said you got twenty crates of ammo, but only ten of them were guns. What was the rest?" Blake asked.

"Kevlar mostly, you can imagine how handy _that_ was, and some brilliant grenades." I said, twirling my baton again as I kept my gaze on Gordon's.

Blake scoffed, incredulous.

"You won't let them use guns, but you're perfectly okay with giving them _bombs_?"

I fixed him with a glare.

"First, it's not my rule, it's the Batman's. Everybody knows he doesn't kill; I knew it even when that _idiotic_ report came out saying that he killed Harvey Dent and those cops. That was total crap. He would never do that; not ever, and we wouldn't be good advocates for him if we broke his one rule. Second, we only bomb empty buildings. It's worked out rather well for us so far, wouldn't you say?" I asked, and he gave a nod of acquiescence, probably recalling the carnage my Young had created with the grenades the day before.

"How many of there are you?" Gordon asked, fiddling with the same marker Scout had.

I looked to him cautiously, weighing the advantages of giving him information.

_To lie, or not to lie. That is the question. _

I opted for the truth.

"Around two hundred. It was significantly less before Bane waltzed in and screwed everything up, but once kids started losing their parents and had nowhere else to go, we grew pretty fast."

Gordon visibly flinched, and I stared him down coldly.

_This is what happens when you don't protect your city and make stupid calls, old man. _

"And Scout...?" I could tell he was reluctant to ask.

"She and her sister are orphans. Both indispensable to The Young. Their mother was a nurse in Gotham General and was killed for trying to keep those Goons from getting to you. She was the reason you had time to go for your gun, _Commissioner_. Scout's older sister had an internship at the hospital; she watched her mother take a bullet to the brain for you. Now, I don't pretend to understand why she made that sacrifice, from where I'm sitting you didn't deserve it, but you owe them _everything_. Don't ever forget that." Contempt was thick in my voice, I watched as sorrow filled his eyes and, again, I felt no pity for him.

"Maestro, listen..." Blake tried to intercede, his voice placating. He might've been angry with the former commissioner for lying, but he obviously still had a measure of respect for him.

"No, _you_ listen, because I want something made clear. I'm not helping you because I want to. I'm helping you out of necessity. I don't trust you, I don't like you, and if you die, it makes zero difference to me." I ignored the little twist in my gut that questioned how I'd react if Blake died, and pressed on. "I'm fighting for my Young, not for you. You had your chance to protect this city, and you screwed it up royally, so we're gonna do this my way, or not at all. Do we understand each other?"

There was a moment of silence as the men traded looks with one another, obviously wondering just who they'd gotten themselves involved with. Finally, Gordon nodded.

"Fine."

I smirked and sat back, passing my baton to my right hand and spinning it even faster than before. As I did, the sleeve of my left arm slid back, and the tattoo there, the bat symbol, was revealed. Blake saw and nodded at it, cocking his head at me.

"You really think he'll come back?"

I looked him dead in his gorgeous blue eyes (_Gorgeous?_ _Really Maestro?_), allowing him to see my conviction.

"I don't think, I _know_ he's not dead, and I _know_ he'll come back for us. That's also part of our Code."

"How do you know?" Gordon asked, sounding mostly curious, but I could detect the desperation hidden beneath that and realized he missed the Dark Knight as well. That surprised me, but then, I imagined even the mob bosses probably wanted our hero back right about then.

I sighed and tried to articulate my thoughts.

"Well, think about it. Bane thinks he's Gotham's reckoning, right? He's all about punishing people. But for the Batman, death wouldn't really be a punishment; he's clearly not afraid of it or he wouldn't do what he does. So he'd need to find some other way to break him. Imagine if you had the power to prevent all this," I made a vague gesture meant to indicate the whole city, "but couldn't, because you were locked away. Imagine if you were held somewhere and forced to watch while the city you fought to protect crumbles in front of your eyes. That would be a pretty severe punishment, wouldn't it? I think he's alive, but he just can't get to us for some reason. But I know he'll come for us. I _know_ he will. Besides, Guardian Angels have a habit of sticking around." I mumbled the last part, a motto I'd associated with the Batman ever since _that_ night.

I knew, now that I'd said my theory aloud, it sounded like I was grasping for straws. I mean, why not simply kill him and remove all risk? That would be the logical thing to do, right? But I was certain, deep in my gut, that he was alive, the same way I'd been certain that he wasn't a murderer.

Besides, common logic didn't really seem like Bane's style. He seemed more like the kind of man – _monster_ – that created his own.

"What does he mean to you?" Blake asked, as though the answer was somehow very crucial to his opinion of me.

"The same thing he means to everyone else. He's a hero." I said evasively, not meeting his eyes.

"Not everybody else has his tattoo on their arm though. I think he did something for you, saved your life maybe, and you feel like you owe him." he responded. It occurred to me that he had a secret in his eyes; he knew something about the Batman that nobody else did.

That infuriated me. He was _my_ hero; Blake was a cop, one of the men sent to hunt him down. For him to know more about my guardian than me was maddening.

"No one asked you to psychoanalyze me." I snapped back acidly.

Gordon watched our exchange quietly; I could tell he was mulling something over in the back of his mind.

"It's just a question, Maestro." Blake said softly, looking at me in a way very few people ever had.

I averted my gaze, the memories coming back afresh.

"All I'll say is that he's a better person than what you people give him credit for. He deserves better than what this city has given him, but he fights for it anyways."

Suddenly fed up with the conversation, the longest non-violent one I'd had with adults in quite a while, I stood and tucked my baton back into my sleeve.

"Three of my boys will deliver the guns before nightfall. If you need to contact me, send Blake to where we found him last night and they'll bring him to my base. I'll have my scouts look into the trucks after some of the heat dies down. In the meantime, I've got to get back and do a headcount to make sure they all made it back safely." I said, heading to the door.

Both men stood.

"Can you meet us tomorrow?" Gordon called after me.

I mulled it over a moment, then agreed.

"Yes. We can discuss some ideal times and/or places for more raids. Oh, and one more thing," I said, pausing halfway across the threshold, "if you or your men ever decide to sell us out and it results in the death of any of my Young, I _will_ dispose of our one rule and I _will_ hunt you down and kill you without hesitation. Fair warning."

Both men's faces had gone somber by the time I turned towards the door.

"Have a nice day, gentlemen."

**~DKR~**

I pulled my jacket tighter around myself to fend off the cold as I walked, heading in the opposite direction of my base and going instead to my apartment. I could do a headcount when I got back, but it was unlikely they had all returned from their rounds yet. Besides, I wanted to be alone for a little while, Blake's questions having triggered the memories of _that night_.

Absently, I stroked the bat symbol on the inside of my left wrist as I turned onto the empty street, ducking swiftly into a nearby alley as one of those very same trucks we'd been discussing earlier swept past me.

_I wonder if that's the one carrying the reactor._

It was an idle train of thought, one I didn't dwell on since there was no real way to tell.

Once it turned off of my street, I continued on my way, making it to my condemned building in very little time and climbing the rickety fire escape to my apartment at the top back corner.

It was no warmer there than it was outside; the building hadn't had power, or consequently heat, since before the Batman's time, but I was grateful for the furnace I'd managed to snag as I flipped it on.

I stood near it as it heated up, extending my hands to warm them first and then moving away as the heat began to fill my living space.

_I'll probably need to get more gas soon; I'll try and siphon it from one of the Goon's bikes later. _

I removed my mask, peering into the cracked hand mirror I kept in one of the drawers of my essentially worthless kitchenette and wincing at the bruises that marred my face and neck.

I was disgusted at myself for being embarrassed that Blake had seen me like this, and chalked it up to never wanting to look vulnerable in front of adults.

_He's not all that much older than you, you know. He can't be more than twenty-five, surely, and you'll be twenty soon... _

I silenced the voice for it's distracting irrelevance and slammed the mirror down, shattering it further, before going back to compose at my desk. Composing helped me either organize my thoughts or forget about them entirely, and I was aiming for the latter as I picked up my pen and a fresh stack of scores. However, my thoughts seemed unusually unwilling to be corralled today, and I knew why. It had been Blake's stupid question about the Batman.

_What does he mean to you? _

With a growl of frustration, I threw my pen back down and made for my Stradivarius. The answer was simple.

_Everything. _

Resigned now, I tucked the instrument under my chin, placed the bow across the strings, and let the memories come flooding back.

**~DKR~**

_(Nine years earlier)_

The mist has settled.

The dark angel has won.

The fear is slowly receding.

Her mother is dead.

The words echo around her mind as though she's in a cave, ricocheting off the walls of her subconscious but never quite hitting home.

Her mother is dead.

The girl kneels in the puddle of blood next to her cold body and still has a hard time processing the fact; tears flow freely down her face and mingle with the crimson that stains her jeans, but inside she's empty, drained of all emotion.

When it finally does catch up with her and she realizes that, yes, the blood is really her mother's, and no, she will never breathe again, she still makes no sound; she cannot. Even if her voice hadn't been strained nearly to the breaking point by her earlier scream, she couldn't. She is mute in the alleyway where her mother's throat was slit; it appears she wandered here in search of her, and in that second the girl _hates_ herself for her fear, _hates_ herself for running.

She knows she should get help, she should run and scream for someone to come to her aid, but it seems she also lacks the ability to move.

She can only sit and stare at her mother's lifeless form, and she briefly wonders if she's been doomed to do so forever, as punishment for her cowardice.

Except, it doesn't happen that way.

There is a rustle of something behind her, detectable only to her hypersensitive ears, and she is momentarily alarmed until she catches that scent again, the scent of danger and protection and something else she cannot name.

The dark angel, her dark guardian, is here. He's come for her, just as she'd known he would.

She feels a hand on her shoulder, hears a gravelly voice tell her it's going to be okay, that he'll protect her, and suddenly she remembers how to move and throws herself into his arms and the safety of his ebony wings.

For a terrifying instant, he stiffens, as though unused to the contact, and she wonders if she's done something horribly wrong until his wings come around her and he presses her close.

There is sound to her weeping then, a low, quiet sobbing that hurts her shredded throat, and the dark angel does not let go.

She does not know how long they stay there, but after a while she feels herself growing drowsy from her tears, and he lifts her effortlessly into his arms.

Now that she sees his face without the effects of the mist, he looks a lot more like a giant bat than an angel, but that's okay, because she's always liked bats.

Besides, he'll always be an angel to her, anyways.

There is an emotion in his ebony eyes, nearly as dark as her own, one that she reads loud and clear.

In that second, she knows this happened to him once, too. Maybe it was both his parents, maybe just one, like hers, but she understands in that exact moment that she is not the only one between them to have a parent die this way.

_Do angels even have parents?_

He breaks into her thoughts by asking her name, and, strangely enough, she doesn't want to give it to him. Her name seems... almost like it doesn't fit anymore, though mere hours ago there hadn't been a more suitable name in the world.

She wonders briefly how it is possible for a person to change so completely in such a short time, but chooses not to dwell on it. Instead, she taps her throat in a clear indication that she cannot speak, and he merely nods and asks her nothing else.

All she knows after that is his steady movement as he carries her, presumably, to someone who will help, and lets the steady thrum of his heartbeat, muffled slightly under what she assumes is armor, lull her to sleep.

When she wakes, it is daylight and she is lying on an uncomfortable cot, and a female police officer tells her that everything is going to be okay.

She knows this is a lie.

However, a metal bat with wickedly sharp ends has been placed under her pillow, and she keeps it carefully concealed, because she knows it's a sign.

A sign that he'll always be watching.

**~DKR~**

I paused in my playing to reach underneath my pillow and clasp the bat symbol I'd kept all these years, feeling the cold of the metal seep into my palm.

_What does he mean to you? _

I inhaled, smelling blood and hearing screams, and when I blinked, the Scarecrow's face loomed into view, and the scar on my right palm hurt afresh.

_Everything. _

I gripped the symbol tight enough to nearly cut my hand.

_Please come back to us._

**A/N: Sorry about the long wait again, folks. All I can say for myself is... school. :P Hope you enjoyed the Blake time! Did I keep everyone in character? REVIEW and let me know!**

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song at the beginning is "So Cold" by Breaking Benjamin, as suggested a few chapters ago by **the iconic one**. **

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! **

**Special thanks also to **Eva Sirico**, **omnomchocolate**, **WithNoFear**, **MockingjayWolf**, **sarcasmwithasmile**, **ShyGirl**, **Solstice White**, and **AlainHotCoco1** for reviewing, as well as all of you who favorited or alerted! You guys make it all worthwhile!**

**Next chapter will be out soon, and REVIEWS prompt me to write faster! **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	7. The First

**For Your Entertainment**

_So hold me when I'm here  
Right me when I'm wrong  
Hold me when I'm scared  
And love me when I'm gone  
Everything I am  
And everything in me  
Wants to be the one  
You wanted me to be  
I'll never let you down  
Even if I could  
I'd give up everything  
If only for your good  
So hold me when I'm here  
Right me when I'm wrong  
You can hold me when I'm scared  
You won't always be there  
So love me when I'm gone_

_Chapter VI_

_The First_

Gotham was quiet.

_Suspiciously _quiet.

Ever since I'd left my apartment, the very air had seemed to hold it's breath in anxious silence, anticipating the looming confrontation that was bound to take place between myself and the masked menace. I'd expected Bane to be on a warpath about now, rounding up reporters to broadcast another message of terror in order to shake us and sending Goons to wreak havoc on any innocent bystanders stupid enough to be close to the center of town.

But Gotham was quiet.

The silence was deafening in the street; my hypersensitive ears were drowning in it, catching on even the smallest of sounds and making me even tenser than normal. There was no way for my footsteps to blend into the background noise, nonexistent as it was, and while I ordinarily would have delighted in the intimidating thump my boots produced, it now only served to announce my location to whatever evil was lurking in the shadows of the alleyways around me.

It was unnerving, to say the least.

I doubled back a few times on my way to the base, knowing I'd probably be able to hear someone following but not willing to risk it.

I hadn't forgotten the fact that we had a mole.

Only when I was safely inside the factory did I relax, rolling my shoulders and neck to try to relieve the hair-trigger tension that had built up there.

_This amount of paranoia can't be healthy. _

"Maestro! I'm glad you're back; I was starting to worry," Savvy greeted when she saw me, trotting in my direction, "The Playing Cards have gone to get the guns and they should be halfway to Gordon's about now. Jazz and I have been trying to do a headcount, but they aren't being very cooperative."

Looking around, I could tell that was an understatement. We hadn't had every member of The Young under the same roof at one time since we first started out, and the scene around me was pandemonium. Apparently the rebels weren't happy with laying low, because the base was ringing with the angry tirades of the discontented and the mutters of the restless. Several fights had broken out, and it occurred to me then why teenagers aren't often used for this sort of thing.

_Seems Scout isn't the only one with cabin fever. It hasn't even been a full day yet. This is getting out of hand._

With a scowl, I strode to my podium and took my place in front of it, blowing on my whistle to get everyone's attention. It took a moment for them to quiet down, but when they did, I glared at them fiercely.

"It has been brought to my attention," I began, my voice dangerously quiet, "that many of you are unhappy with the idea of staying under the radar for the next few days." There was a chorus of agreement, and I held up a hand to silence them. "Get over it. I understand you want to make your deliveries, and I know you want to help the people we've become accustomed to making runs to. I do too; that's why we're here. However, we can't help them if we're dead or captured, therefore we're staying here until some of the heat dies down and we can figure out where to strike next. A plan has already been set in motion for our next major raid," I couldn't help but smile at the collective cheer that went up, "but in the meantime you will. Stay. _Here_. If you get yourself captured because you disobeyed my order, I won't risk the lives of The Young to come rescue you. Do I make myself clear?"

A chorus of mumbled acceptance followed this, and I nodded at them.

"Good. Dismissed."

They dispersed, and I hopped down from my podium, catching Savvy's relieved and grateful look as I did so. She was a good leader, but she was far too considerate, and disliked giving orders that contradicted the desires of the rebels.

I had no such qualms.

With a sigh, I rolled my shoulders to relieve the tension there and went to the medical ward to look for Stitches.

She was bent over a kid, no older than fourteen, who was gritting his teeth in pain while she changed the bandages on a bullet wound in his right thigh. Fortunately for him, it had missed the main artery, though only by scant inches according to our medic.

"Stitches, you know where your sister is?"

The girl brushed a stray lock of strawberry-blonde hair out of her eye with her hand, which was coated in dried blood, and looked up at me with mild panic in her gaze.

"I'm _so_ sorry she followed you, Maestro; if I'd known she'd try something like that I would have-"

I held up a hand, knowing Stitches had probably been nearby when Scout had relayed my message and figured out that she'd followed me.

"I just need to talk to her."

She studied me a moment warily, and bent back over her work.

"She's doing her shift on the roof. Don't worry, she took the back staircase."

I thanked her and turned on my heel, heading towards the back of the factory and beginning to ascend the long, rickety staircase that granted roof access if you felt like climbing high enough.

I pushed away the panel that covered the opening, blinking momentarily as a rare spot of sunlight peeking through the clouds blinded me. The cold air met my face as I emerged, spotting Scout sitting with her knees to her chest on the edge of the roof, her eyes gazing blankly at the streets below her.

Quietly, I walked over to her and sat down, letting my boots dangle off the side of the building.

Below us, the streets were quiet. Only the whistle of the wind and the scuffling from lookouts on other rooftops split the near-thunderous silence.

Scout looked at me and managed a small half-smile before resting her chin on her knees.

"Hey, Maestro."

I crossed my legs and leaned back on my palms, raising my masked face to the achromatic sky.

"Hey. What're you doing up here?"

She didn't look at me this time, merely faced forward and kept her keen blue eyes fixed solidly in front of her.

"Staying out of the way. Keeping watch. Take your pick."

I sighed, deciding to cut to the chase.

"Why did you follow me today, Scout? I'd expect this from Matchstick or Rook, but not you."

"I'm a spy," she said softly, "I'm supposed to be curious."

"That's not an answer, and you know it." I replied.

It was her turn to sigh, and in her eyes, something broke.

"I wanted to meet him," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to my own alert ears, "I had to see..." her voice trailed off.

Instantly, I understood.

"You had to see if what he was doing was worth it?"

Barely any sound left her lips; she practically mouthed her assent.

"Yeah."

I shook my hair loose from it's ponytail and let it hang limply over my shoulders.

"I get it, okay? You didn't want your mom to have died for someone who wasn't doing anything with her sacrifice. It's understandable. But I gave you an order."

"I know." she whispered, the beginnings of tears gleaming in her eyes.

"I gave it to you to keep you safe. Any other time, I wouldn't have minded so much, because frankly Bane himself would have a hard time spotting you on his best day, much less chasing you down and apprehending you, but you're injured, Scout. You can't climb as fast or defend yourself; you wouldn't even be able to put up a fight in this condition. What would I have had to tell Stitches if something else had happened to you? I've already had to have that discussion with her once and it's not an experience I'm eager to relive."

"I'm sorry, Maestro, I get it." she said, a tear spilling out over one eye.

"No, you don't get it," I pressed, hating to continue but _needing_ her to understand how important this was, "kids risked their lives trying to save you and the others yesterday, and that one wasn't your fault, it was mine. But you need to honor those kids the same way you want Gordon to honor your mother. And Scout, you're the best and most effective person in The Young, but if you _ever_ go and pull a stunt like that again, I _will_ banish you, for your safety and theirs. _Now_ do you understand?"

She sniffed and wiped away another tear, determination in her eyes now.

"Yes, Maestro. It won't happen again. I promise."

I nodded, and there was a second of silence between us as the icy breeze rushed by.

Then, out of nowhere: "What was your mom like?"

I stiffened, momentarily smelling vanilla and hearing a high, musical laugh, but didn't look at her.

"Why?" I asked, keeping my tone flat.

She shrugged.

"Savvy says you never talk about your parents, but you're pretty concerned with mine. I just figured there's a story there."

I couldn't help but release a small smile.

"You figure too much."

"Well? What was she like?"

"Some things are better left in the past." I said, hoping my tone conveyed my stance on the subject.

She shrugged again.

"If you say so."

More silence, except this time it wasn't the quiet kind. I was having flashbacks out of nowhere, flashbacks I hadn't had in years.

_Christmases spent with just the two of us and burnt Thanksgiving turkeys, homemade angel costumes for Halloween and excitement over something as simple as a new pair of shoes for my birthday. _

I sighed.

"She was... elegance and light and everything _good_. She worked so hard for us, and everyone who knew her loved her."

Scout shifted, her gaze on me now instead of the street below us.

"And your dad?"

I sat up straighter, this time only a single memory playing through my head.

_Drunken shouts and my mother yelling at someone to just get out, to get out and never come back, __smelling cigarettes as someone stormed by me and slammed the door. _

"He left."

Scout frowned.

"How old were you?"

"One."

Silence.

"My dad was in the army," here she lifted her chin, and I didn't miss the pride in her voice, "stationed in Afghanistan. He was killed in action three years ago."

I was amazed at how strong she could be, she, who was only twelve, after having both her parents die at the hands of someone else.

"How did your mother die?" she asked softly, as though she knew how I'd react to the question. I could hear desperation in her voice, and it occurred to me that this entire line of conversation was all a way for her to gain some closure.

_Blood, so much blood... the smell was so thick I could taste it and my throat burned..._

I stood.

"Like I said Scout, it's in the past."

With that, I turned on my heel and left the roof, shoving the memories away.

**~DKR~**

The next morning was chaotic as several more fights broke out between my restless Young, and in-between dealing with them and trying to restore order, I barely managed to debrief my four most trusted rebels (Scout and Stitches had been added as my confidantes these last few days) about the fact that I was planning to go meet Gordon again.

Jazz was less than happy about it, but that was understandable, and Savvy merely nodded and told me she'd take care of things at base. She was smiling while she said it, but I think even she was eager to get the extra rebels back onto the streets.

It wasn't that they were exactly angry, per se, it was more like they had become so accustomed to constantly making runs and giving aid that they felt useless hiding. I, however, was firm in my belief that we needed to lay low. Just because Bane hadn't made a move yet, didn't mean he wouldn't. I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever he was planning, it was going to happen soon, and if I knew the monster that had taken over my city at all, it was going to be bloody.

_Or maybe he's just trying to make me so paranoid I'll drop dead from exhaustion. I'll have to set up a contingency..._

"Hey, Maestro!"

The familiar voice stopped me as I headed away from the factory, and I turned expectantly to see Stitches jogging up to me, wrapped in a ratty old coat and her hands cleaned of blood.

"I'm coming with you." she said, lifting her chin in a way that was reminiscent of Scout when she's determined and daring me to challenge her.

I did anyways.

"Really? And why, after I've just had a very long conversation with your little sister about staying when I tell her to, do you think I'm going to let you come?"

She cocked her head.

"I need to see him, Maestro."

_That figures. _

"Stitches, I don't think that's a good idea. I didn't have all of The Young come back here for no reason, you know. I honestly believe there's danger."

"There's _always_ danger now, in case you haven't noticed." she retorted, bracing her hands on her hips.

"More than normal!" I said, flustered, "Why can't you people accept that I'm just trying to keep you safe?"

She sighed and looked at me through exhausted eyes.

"Maestro, we knew the risks when we joined you. We knew what we were getting into. Even Scout understood. If you're worried about us, you can't do your job, and that's freeing this city. Let them go back to their runs, and let me come with you."

_She has a point. _

I paced twice, ran a hand through my hair, pulled it back up, paced again, and looked back at her, glaring fiercely.

"_Fine_. I'll let them go back out in two days then. If you want to come, you stay by my side and you do _exactly_ what I tell you. Am I clear?" I asked, feeling the beginnings of a headache pound behind my eyes.

She nodded and pulled her coat closer to herself, and I turned away to continue walking, grumbling mentally all the while. When I didn't hear footsteps behind me, I stopped and looked back.

Stitches was looking back at the factory, a strange expression in her eyes. I watched as her gaze traveled up, up, up, to the very top of the building, where I could see the flash of Scout's strawberry-blonde hair. Stitches waved to her sister, who waved back, grinning broadly. Something passed between them, something I didn't understand right then, and then she turned back to me.

"Sorry," she said, noticing my peeved expression, "I just... I got a really weird feeling all of a sudden. Let's just go."

That worried me, seeing as how I believed very strongly in gut feelings and intuition, but I shoved it to the back of my mind and carried on.

It wasn't actually all that long of a walk to Gordon's base, but it felt like an eternity with Stitches right next to me the entire time. Despite appearances, I didn't know her nearly as well as I knew her sister, so the silence between us was more than a little awkward.

When we finally made it to the base, I let myself in via the back door as I had last time, not surprised to see Gordon, Blake, and the rest of the men already waiting for me.

"Gentlemen," I began, interrupting Gordon mid-sentence and startling him so much he whirled around in his seat at the table, "good to see you again. This is Stitches, our medic and one of my confidantes." I said, gesturing to the girl beside me, who nodded once.

"Glad you could make it, Maestro." Gordon greeted, rising to shake my hand, and, when he saw my glare, moved on to Stitches, who responded warmly. He paused when he met her eyes.

"You look familiar, do I know you?"

She gave him a half-hearted smile.

"I worked at the hospital. My mother was your nurse. I was interning there and brought you breakfast a couple of times. I believe you met my sister yesterday."

I watched the color leave his face and most certainly did _not_ feel any sort of sick satisfaction at his pain.

Really, I didn't.

"We need to get down to business, Gordon. I don't have all day." I said calmly, knowing he and our medic could talk later.

_This is _not_ a conversation I'm willing to witness. _

He nodded once at me before dismissing his men, and they left with the same amount of suspicion as they had the day before. Only Blake remained behind, and he gave me a smile I felt myself wanting to return before taking a seat at the table. Gordon gave Stitches his chair, and she took it gratefully while he and I remained standing.

"I've analyzed our main needs right now, and that comes down to rations for us as well as gas for our arsonists and our heaters, and you'll be needing more weapons and ammo on top of what I sent you." I began, twirling my baton absentmindedly.

Gordon and Blake both nodded, and I continued.

"They'll be guarding their large shipments more carefully now, which means we'll have to steal in small increments. We're going to have to start attacking Goons directly. With the exception of Barsad, Bane's lieutenant, they never go out alone, which is actually more dangerous for them, because that means they're carrying bulk in what we need."

Blake sat back in his chair.

"You're talking about the patrols."

"You know of anybody else that parades around in large groups carrying rations, weapons, and gas?" I asked.

"I'm sorry, gas?" Stitches asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

"She's talking about their bikes." Gordon cut in quietly, and I nodded at him.

"Thank you. Maybe you were made commissioner for a reason after all."

"_Maestro!_" Stitches hissed.

I shot her a look and she fell silent.

"So not only are we going to be attacking armed men that travel in groups of fifteen to twenty, _looking_ for members of the resistance, but they're going to be on _motorcycles_." Blake commented with the raise of an eyebrow.

"Precisely. And not only that, but we're also going to make examples of them, as well."

"How are you planning on doing this, exactly?"

"Making examples of them?"

"Getting them off their bikes so you _can_."

"Oh. Diversions, ear-splitting rock music, maybe an explosion or two, the usual. Oh, and if you guys feel like taking a few of them out, feel free."

Blake frowned.

"That's going to stop working eventually."

I laughed. Actually _laughed_, which is something I haven't done in a while.

"Well, that would imply they've been _learning_, and that requires a brain. Bane's Goons have the collective intelligence of a bowl of mangoes."

"We've hit the smaller patrols before." Stitches pointed out.

"But now they think we'll have moved on and are aiming for bigger targets. Also, we'll have guns on our side this time." I said, gesturing to Gordon, who nodded his agreement in return.

"Besides," I continued, "it'll be a new challenge with them on bikes. And after we've gotten what we need, we can revert back to the good old days of hog-tying them with piano wire."

Blake winced, and I smirked at him before turning to Gordon.

"I'm assuming they've already started rebuilding the courthouse?" I asked, and he nodded.

"Yes. They continued executing people this morning."

_That was fast._

I grimaced and continued pacing.

"There's a surprise. Dearest Dr. Crane just couldn't rest until he killed a few more, could he?"

Gordon studied me.

"You know Crane?"

"Who doesn't?" I snapped back, rubbing my right palm out of habit, "Anyway, I was thinking we could hog-tie the Goons and leave them on the courthouse steps. A taunt, if you will."

"You think it's a good idea to _taunt_ the psychopath who managed to single-handedly take over Gotham?" Blake asked, incredulous.

I smirked again.

"I think it's a terrible idea. An idea terrible enough to let him know we're still here and we don't plan on backing down; kinda like poking a bear with a stick. Once my spy detail gets back on the streets, which should start happening within the next few days, we'll figure out the new patrolling schedule. They've changed it since our last attacks."

Blake and Gordon both nodded their agreement.

"I'll have my men keep an eye out too." Gordon said, glancing down at the map spread in front of him.

"Should we get more intel on the civilian that has the detonator?" Blake asked, almost offhandedly.

I frowned. That had been bothering me for a while, actually.

"I can't tell if he's bluffing about that; it's hard to read a poker face on somebody in a mask. Bane seems like too much of a control freak to just _give_ someone that kind of power." I said, pacing again and passing the baton between my hands.

"I agree," Gordon chimed in, "I doubt there's a separate one, Detective."

"If it's true, the carrier would have to be someone he trusts." Blake commented.

"Have we considered Barsad?" Stitches asked quietly.

I shook my head.

"The term he used, '_civilian_', is specific. Barsad is a Goon, an enforcer. I think he would have made a reference to his men if that were the case. Besides, that's an obvious choice, right? And if someone were to take out Bane there's a good chance Barsad would either already be dead or get caught in the crossfire, so that would make it pointless."

"What if he's working with someone? I mean, you have to have serious connections to pull off a takeover like this." Blake mused.

"We already know he was working with John Daggett." Gordon pointed out, but I shook my head, knowing the deceased business mogul probably hadn't been in on the plot to sack the city. I'd done my research after the city had fallen; with my, at the time, still-growing spy detail, I'd had the gaps that weren't known to the rest of the city filled in within days. Scout had actually been the one to get me information on both John Daggett and another of his rumored hired cronies, a cat burglar by the name of Selina Kyle, which is what prompted me to grant her the position as head of reconnaissance even at her age.

"No, I think I understand what he means. Daggett was, again, an obvious choice, and he's dead, but what if there was another one? Someone else with a perfect cover to get Bane in and help him do all this? He, or I suppose she, though that seems unlikely, would be someone either underestimated or deemed trustworthy by Gotham, so that they'd never be suspected. We need to look for that person, because chances are that's who's got it. If there _is_ a separate detonator." I amended quickly.

"Having the detonator will only do us so much good if we can't locate the reactor." Gordon commented, and I agreed.

"As I mentioned earlier, my spies will be continuing their rounds in a matter of days, and I'll divide them between finding out the patrolling schedules and tracking the trucks. Your men are more than welcome to uncover any other intel possible, as my spy detail is regrettably small." I said, glancing at my watch. "We need to be heading back. I have to make sure my base hasn't been burned down or something; restless teenagers, you know."

I didn't mention that being in the presence of adults (ignoring the fact that I'm nineteen) for so long, _cops_ no less, was making me itchy and kicking my paranoia into overdrive. Plus, with the unidentified mole skulking about, I didn't want to pass up the chance to see the Young interacting with one another to get an idea of who I should suspect and who I shouldn't.

Stitches shot me a pleading look as Gordon and Blake both stood, (_are they being gentlemen or do they just lack the ability to let someone walk out a door?_) which I interpreted with a grudging sigh.

"Fine, make it fast. Blake, walk with me." I commanded, turning sharply and striding out the door, a very confused detective on my heels.

"What's going-?" he began, and I sighed before dragging him by his shirt collar around the corner.

"Stitches wants to talk to Gordon in private. _Private_, meaning no nosy rookies allowed." I said, releasing his shirt and _not_ blushing beneath my mask when my fingertips accidentally brushed skin.

He frowned.

"I'm not a rookie anymore."

I smirked at him.

"You're not much of anything anymore, are you?"

"Oh, I forgot, you have to wear a mask to mean something in this city. I don't get it." he retorted, as he nodded towards the object in question that obscured my face.

I smiled slightly.

"People wear masks for different reasons. Bane wears one, if Scout is anything to go by, because of some obscure medical condition. The Batman wears one to be a symbol; to be more than just a man. Joker wore face paint... probably just because he felt like it. And Crane..." my voice trailed off.

"What about him?"

I inhaled, feeling my heart race slightly.

"Fear. His mask is about fear."

"And you?" Blake asked quietly, "Why do you wear the mask?"

I fixed my black gaze on him, studying his handsome profile and wondering why this situation didn't feel tense, why it was suddenly so easy to talk to him.

"I was tired of looking in the mirror and not recognizing my own face or the person I'd become. The mask eliminates that little issue."

Blake was studying me now.

"Who were you before?"

_My mother cries my name as the white mist rises more steadily in the air; I hear it above the screams._

"I was nobody."

A moment of silence.

"You're not what I expected, you know." Blake said softly after a moment.

"Oh? And what did you expect?"

"When I first heard about you and what you were doing, I figured you'd be a careless teenager with no concern for the children she put in harm's way, someone fighting back just to be noticed."

I tried not to wince at that.

"What do you see now?" I asked, not certain I wanted to know the answer.

"Someone who is eaten alive with guilt every time she sees her rebels, one who hates the cards Fate has dealt them with no grudge about the cards they dealt _her_. I see a selfless _woman_, not a girl."

My face heated strangely at his words even as I denied them.

"I'm not selfless."

_I nearly let Scout and two others die at Bane's hands._

"I think you are. I think you're more than you give yourself credit for."

Irritated suddenly, I whirled on him.

"Oh, you _think_, do you? Because you know me so well? Well, newsflash, you're wrong. I've got so much hate that I can't even _breathe_ beneath the weight of it sometimes; there are several people that, if given the opportunity, I would _kill_ without a moment's hesitation, and the only thing keeping me from seeking it out myself are those kids! Do you understand? I'm not whole, I'm not even broken; I'm _shattered_. I cannot be fixed, I cannot be rehabilitated, and I will _never be good_. So do me a favor and don't pretend you understand." I spat, storming towards the door to collect Stitches. I had to get out of there.

_Don't make me into a hero. Batman is a hero. I'm fallen._

"Maestro, wait!" he reached out, and, in a movement of what he couldn't know was sheer stupidity, caught my wrist.

I reacted without thinking, spinning back and using the momentum to slam him against the wall where I kept him pinned. He was easily stronger than me, but for some reason he didn't move as I pressed my forearm against his throat.

"_Don't. Touch. Me._" I hissed, adrenaline buzzing in my head.

Blake struggled slightly, but only to free his throat so he could speak.

"You're right, Maestro, I don't know you at all, but I _want_ to. Let me help you. You don't have to work alone. I just want you to trust me."

_There's a catch, Maestro, he's a cop, you _can't_ trust him..._

"_Why?_ Why do you care?" I demanded, searching his endless eyes for any kind of guile or deceit. I found none.

"You've done this on your own the whole time; you think I don't know what that's like?" he asked, his gaze locked with my own. "I got lucky; I got into the Academy early on. I got a _chance_. Something tells me you weren't so fortunate."

_A lot of the kids say he used to live at the Boy's Home until he aged out. _

Scout's words from yesterday played through my head, and I frowned before releasing him and stepped away, chest heaving.

"I don't need your help." I whispered, confusion filling my body as I stared at him. Why was I so undone?

He sighed, looking at me as though the sight of me in a state like this pained him, somehow. I hated him for it.

"You will." There was no trace of uncertainty in his voice, and I knew he wasn't speaking from arrogance, but from experience.

I clenched my fists.

_I'll kiss Jonathan Crane before I come to you for help._

This firmly established in my mind, I brushed past him and into the cafeteria, ignoring how a tiny voice was whispering that, just moments ago, he'd been close enough to kiss.

**~DKR~**

Stitches frowned quietly to herself as she and Maestro made their trek back to the base. In the month she'd known their leader, never once had she ever looked this shaken. Her time alone with Blake – whatever had occurred between them – had rattled her.

It was hardly surprising that Maestro was reacting like this; she didn't deal well with other adults and everyone knew about her loathing for police in particular. But if the looks she had seen Blake give Maestro when she wasn't watching were anything to go by, things were about to get a whole lot more complicated for the leader of The Young.

_As if things weren't complicated enough for her already..._

Her brow furrowed as she replayed the conversation she'd just had with Gordon in her head.

_Maestro swept out of the room, Blake looking lost as he was towed along behind her, and Stitches couldn't help but smile at her lack of subtlety. Gordon appeared confused. _

"_Is everything alright... Stitches, is it?" _

_She smiled again at his awkward use of her alias, but her hands shook as she was faced with the man she'd wanted to speak with for so long. Everything she'd planned to say if this moment ever arrived suddenly flew out of her head._

"_Yes... I guess I just... I wanted to talk to you..." she fumbled, blushing and hating her tongue. _

_She was grateful for the understanding that shot through his eyes, and relaxed slightly. _

"_Maestro told me about you and your sister." he began, taking his seat across from her. "She said your mother was killed in the hospital." _

"_Did she tell you why?" Stitches asked, hoping her tone didn't sound accusatory because the _last_ thing she felt toward the older man was blame. _

_He hesitated._

"_She tried to stop Bane's men from killing me." _

_Stitches nodded, unable to speak for fear of how her voice would sound. _

"_Your mother was a good nurse, Stitches, and I _know_ that sounds hollow. Her sacrifice is humbling, and I'm sorry that all I can offer you in return is my respect and _profound_ gratitude. When this is over, I'll make sure you and your sister are taken care of. You have my word." _

_The speech would have sounded empty and, yes, hollow, had something wet not been glistening in his eyes as he spoke, telling her he meant every word. Then and there Stitches knew the depth of his pain at what his city had been reduced to, and, no matter what Maestro claimed or what his actions – lying about The Batman, for instance – implied, she knew he was a good man. _

"_If my mother had to die, Commissioner," she said quietly, "I'm grateful it was for a man like you. No matter what Maestro may have said." _

_There was a moment of silence as Gordon had to look away, the tears she had seen forming in his eyes were dangerously close to falling, and, respectfully, she averted her gaze. _

_It felt as though a weight had been lifted off of her chest. She had wanted him to know that she didn't hold her mother's death against him; it had been her choice and she had chosen to honor it rather than become bitter. _

_When he spoke again, the mood between them was considerably lighter. _

"_Your Maestro doesn't seem to like me very much." he admitted wryly, and Stitches found herself half-smiling at him. _

"_She just doesn't trust you. But that's okay; I don't think Maestro trusts anyone, not really, unless you count The Batman." _

_Gordon shook his head. _

"_She really believes he's coming back. She has incredible faith in him." _

_Stitches nodded. _

"_Nobody really knows why. She's pretty closed off, even from her own lieutenants."_

"_How did you and your sister find her?" _

_She recalled it vividly._

"_At the beginning, when Gotham had just fallen, all the kids on the street knew where she was. We wanted to help, and just asked around until we found someone who could take us to her. She did her recruiting in a back alley and lead the ones that made the cut to the base from there. I wasn't sure whether or not she'd let Scout in, her being so young and all, but Maestro took one look at her, asked her age and whether or not she was good at getting information, and let her join right away. It's almost like..." _

"_Like what?" Gordon asked. _

_Stitches inhaled._

"_This is just a guess, mind you, but... I think after she heard our story... I think she saw herself in Scout, a little bit. It's difficult to tell without knowing her background, but-" _

They had been interrupted in that moment by an irate Maestro bursting in and announcing that it was time to go, her dark eyes flashing fiercely. Stitches, wishing she'd had more time with the former commissioner but knowing not to push her luck, merely thanked him for his time, bid him and the weary-looking detective trailing behind Maestro goodbye, and followed behind her leader, who was, by that time, already storming away.

Now the pair of them walked in utter silence, much like they had on the way to Gordon's, except this time the quiet was eerie, unnatural. A feeling of foreboding, one she'd been experiencing all day and that was growing dramatically by the minute, welled up inside her.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as they entered a broad alley, one they'd taken on the way to Gordon's base.

Something was wrong.

Beside her, Maestro came to an abrupt halt, her arm flying out across her midsection to stop her.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice lowered to match the stillness around them.

Maestro's eyes stared directly ahead, her head cocked slightly to the left, and Stitches knew she was listening with those near-inhuman ears of hers.

"Maestro, what is it?" she whispered again after several seconds of this, voice even lower this time.

Something in her leader's shoulder blades tensed imperceptibly, and when she spoke, her voice was calm, level, and controlled, but Stitches recognized it easily for what it was – the voice she used when there was danger.

"Stitches?"

"Yeah?"

"_Run_."

**~DKR~**

Mercifully, Stitches was never one to question orders, and as I broke into a dead sprint in an adjoining alley to my right, our medic hot on my heels, I'd never been so grateful for that little fact.

Bane was here.

_How?_

I'd heard his mask hissing the same way I had at the docks, except this time I knew what it was; he was incredibly close.

_How did he find us?_

Then it hit me.

_Of course. _

Stitches and I ran full-tilt into another broad alley, turning right towards the mouth. From there, we'd be on a main road, but there were plenty of options from there. Here, we were boxed in.

_The mole. They must have followed me or overheard Scout. _

Then every rational thought flew out of my head to be replaced by panic as our path was suddenly blocked by five Goons, all armed with machine guns. Without breaking stride, I grabbed Stitches' arm and towed her back towards the alley we just came from, only to see Bane himself emerging, filling the gap with just his broad shoulders.

At the opposite end of the alley, five more Goons, all armed similarly to the others, cut off that route of escape, and I shoved Stitches behind me as I backed towards the opposite wall.

My eyes locked with Bane's steel grey ones, and I lifted my chin challengingly.

"Lord Vader. I'd say it was nice to see you again, but I'm afraid I'd be lying."

His eyes were burning, not with anger or malice or even something as simple as dislike, but a cold, empty sort of burn, one in which I knew he wished to destroy the entire world.

He looked towards the Goons on my right.

"Take care not to hit the masked one." he said simply, and before I could react or even process what that meant, the world exploded in a violent burst of noise and I doubled over, crying out in agony as the sound tore through my ears.

_painpainpainpainpainpainPAIN !_

It was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. Distantly, almost absently, I registered that it had been a gunshot, and that it had been close.

My ears rang, loudly enough that I missed Stitches' small cry, and when I straightened back up, the world around me muffled as though submerged in water, she was crumpled on the ground, the center of her chest leaking crimson.

_No..._

My world slammed to a screeching halt.

_Stitches... not you..._

I was on my knees now, neither remembering nor caring how I'd gotten there, and all that mattered was bracing my hands across the wound to try and stop the bleeding.

There was no movement from behind me; no one made any effort to detain me. I didn't care or wonder why.

Stitches had been shot. Nothing else mattered.

_It's my fault._

Stitches had been shot.

_I shouldn't have let her come._

Stitches had been shot.

_It's my fault._

"M-Maestro..." she whispered, her voice sounding faint and far away and I _prayed_ it was just because of my still-muffled hearing as she coughed blood onto my hands.

I shushed her as I fought to keep her blood from flowing, but, deep down, I _knew_.

I knew I was going to lose her.

I knew she was going to be the first of my Young to die.

And I knew, the same way I'd known The Batman had been innocent, she wouldn't be the last.

"_Maestro..._" I prayed I was only imagining the fact that her voice sounded fainter.

"Hush, Stitches, don't try to talk." I pressed, my entire body trembling with the effort I was making not to cry.

"Do you think she'll be proud of me? My mom?" she continued between coughs of blood, as though she hadn't heard me.

I nearly cried out.

_Are you proud of _me_, Mom? Are you proud of what I am?_

"She'll be _so_ proud of you, Stitches, so proud. You're going to be with her now, it's okay. Everything will be alright now. Trust me."

_My mother lies in a pool of her own blood, her lips still open as though she'd died while calling out my name..._

"Maestro?" Her voice, just for a moment, was strong. "Watch over my little sister. Watch over Scout. Promise me."

I leaned down to her, whispering directly into her ear so only she could hear my reply.

"I swear it on my life."

She gave a last, lingering look into my eyes, and a tear leaked from her eye and slithered back into her hair as she smiled at me, one last time, before pressing something into my palm.

"I hope you see how good you really are, someday."

I watched the light leave her eyes as she gave a last, final sigh, and then she was gone.

For a moment, the world remained suspended there, pausing in respect to the dead medic, one of the only ones _truly_ innocent in this fight.

All I could hear was the sound of my own breathing and the drum of my heartbeat. I looked closer at the object fisted in my hand. It was a simple, silver necklace with a _V_ pendant dangling from it.

_Her real name must start with V. _

Then, in my ringing ears, I heard muffled pair of footsteps approach me.

Stealthily, still kneeling, I slipped my left hand into the pocket of my jeans, feeling smooth metal under my palm as it closed over a switchblade I'd only ever used to cut _objects_, not people.

_That's about to change. _

A meaty hand swung down and landed on my shoulder, and, with a single, fluid movement, I extended the knife and swung, spinning on my heels and bringing it across a masculine throat, and the Goon stumbled back and fell, immediately drowning in his own blood. I had already moved on, sinking my blade deep into the chest of the second Goon, in the exact same spot where Stitches had taken her bullet.

In two smooth strokes, I had broken our code.

And I didn't care.

Several more Goons came to apprehend me, and, while I slashed and fought and kicked and cursed, my ears ringing unpleasantly all the while, I was, predictably, overpowered and forced to my knees in front of Bane. He hadn't moved from his place in front of the alley Stitches and I had run through.

I didn't look up at him, merely stared at his boots. However, the voice that broke the silence was not the smooth, metallic one I had been expecting.

"Hey there Maestro. This is quite a turnout, isn't it?"

I froze at the familiar voice, the blood in my veins coming to a dangerous boil.

_I should have known. _

"Well," the voice said, light and mocking and smug, "aren't you going to say hello?"

With a sound similar to a growl, I raised my head and looked directly into the eyes of our mole.

"_Matchstick_."

**A/N: Nice, uplifting chapter for you there. ;) Also, I'm just going to stop apologizing for the long wait between updates because... well... it's going to keep happening. Sorry. School is a nuisance. :P Also, we should, if my plot bunnies don't change things up on me, be receiving regular Crane action during the next few chapters.  
**

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song at the beginning is "When I'm Gone" by 3 Doors Down. :) **

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! **

**Special thanks also to **MockingJayWolf**, **Eva Sirico**, **Gina-B-ookworm**, **omnomchocolate**, **WithNoFear**, **SilverBulletAngel**, **Sam0728**, **ShawneeSavage**,** the iconic one**, and **DesdemonaEmo13** for your kind reviews, as well as those who favorited or alerted!**

**Next chapter will be out soon, and it's been scientifically proven that REVIEWS cause better and faster work ethic in writers. Just saying. :)**

**P.S. I know it's a tad late for this, but since this past week was Thanksgiving I'd like to take a moment to say how grateful I am for all your feedback. This story has nearly 50 reviews, exactly 3000 hits (at last count), and was recently added to the Batman Begins/Dark Knight community called "Gotham's Finest". When I discovered this, I danced around my room like a crazy person. I'm so, so grateful to you all for reading my story and for accepting it. Thank you so much. :) ****Also, I need a good cover for this fic, so if anybody's interested, shoot me a PM!**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	8. The Remembered

**For Your Entertainment**

_Get out your guns, battles begun,  
are you a saint, or a sinner?  
If love's a fight, than I shall die,  
with my heart on a trigger..._

_I'm an angel with a shotgun,  
fighting 'til the war's won,  
I don't care if heaven won't take me back,  
I'll throw away my faith, babe, just to keep you safe.  
Don't you know you're everything I have?  
And I wanna live, not just survive, tonight.  
_

_Sometimes to win, you've got to sin,  
don't mean I'm not a believer,  
and major Tom, will sing along,  
Yeah, they still say I'm a dreamer.  
_

_Chapter VII_

_The Remembered_

"_Matchstick._"

In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have been surprised. She _had _been a loose canon after all; we'd all known it, and yet it still stung something hidden inside me, something I thought didn't exist anymore.

After searching for a moment, I was disgusted to realize that I'd _trusted _her. Not openly, not enough to to tell her anything significant (though a fat lot of good we had done trying to _hide _information from her), and not enough to even admit it to my lieutenants, but it had never actually struck me that she could be the mole. She'd always come through for us, in her own way.

I realized now, too late, that it had all been a way to gain the very sort of trust I'd granted her; _just enough_.

A slow, easy smile rested on her cruelly pretty face; her gaze was poisonous in its relaxation.

"Surprised? I thought you might be."

My final line of defense, snark and sarcasm, was my only option at this point, and the sight of Stitches' blood covering my hands made me all too happy to comply.

"Only surprised that it was you. I figured someone would need at least half a brain cell to carry something like this out; _you _never even came to mind."

Her smile faltered slightly, but didn't leave her face.

"Well then, it looks like I did my job pretty well. If you didn't suspect me, I had more autonomy in which to work. I guess that mess is your fault then, huh?" she sneered, nodding towards Stitches' body, which was still lying in a puddle of blood behind me.

Half blinded by rage and my ears still ringing painfully, I tried to leap at her, reveling momentarily in the brief flash of fear that tainted her blue eyes before the butt end of a gun from a nearby Goon collided directly with my face and I hit the ground hard. Blood spurted immediately from my nearly-broken nose, and when I moved to wipe it away, it mingled with the blood of our dead medic and the two murdered Goons that also coated my hands.

Matchstick's grin at my cry of pain only increased my rage, and it was then that I realized then that I wanted to kill her, too.

"Not so tough now, are you, Maestro? You were always so much better than everyone else, barking orders, throwing your weight around like you weren't just some street rat whose parents had the good sense to ditch early."

I tensed, gaze locked on hers, and only barely refrained from launching myself at her again, knowing it wouldn't do any good.

_You have _no_ idea what you're talking about. _

I looked to Bane, who was still looming over us and looking slightly amused, but remained wordless. For some reason, he wanted this conversation to happen, and I know that if he didn't, I would have been carted off long ago.

_That reminds me... _

I turned back to Matchstick, choosing to ignore the rage building in my chest in order to get answers.

"Why, Matchstick? You realize that if you join _him_, if you stop The Young, you're condemning your own city!"

"This city is beyond saving! Bane's got the right idea. We need to be purged, Maestro. There is _no _fixing this." she cried. I saw insanity in her eyes, and I wondered, not for the first time, what her story was. I wondered what tragedy drove her to my court, and I wondered when she'd first decided Gotham was a lost cause and first went to Bane.

"You would _die _for someone else's delusion? Not only die, but _cause_ the death of others?" I scoffed, unable to comprehend it. "You're insane."

She smirked.

"Insane? I prefer to think of myself as... _enlightened_."

"Again, Matchstick, I remind you of the necessity of brain cells." I spat back, blood boiling, "The Batman will-" I was suddenly cut off by Matchstick striking me in the face. The only thing that smarted was my pride, however; _Scout_ hit harder than she did.

"The Batman is dead, you idiot!" she screamed, her entire body tensing in fury, "You keep preaching that same old lie to everyone, giving them a hope that will only crush them! Even if he is alive, he's not coming back!"

"Yes. He. _Is_."

"Then I hope he dies trying!"

The rage that surged through me this time lent my feet wings, and when I moved it was too fast for anyone to see coming. I leaped and pinned her to the alley wall, my arm at her throat as she struggled and gasped for air while my other struck her in the face, successfully blacking her eye. The Goons tried to drag me off, but the adrenaline pounding in my ears had seemingly given me super strength. I fisted my free hand in the fabric of her clothing, plastering myself to her while still pressing her against the wall. I wasn't going anywhere, and if I had anything to say about it, neither was she.

"The Batman is alive. The Batman is coming back. The Batman is our protector. An enemy of the Batman is an enemy of The Young. The Code, Matchstick, is not something I just pulled out of thin air to get kids to rally to me. It's all true. And when he comes, I don't imagine he'll be very happy with the ones who helped the masked menace." I hissed, watching with a twist of satisfaction in my gut as her face turned blue from lack of air.

_The Batman is _everything_, you little slut. He's alive, he's coming back, and when he does I'll spit in your face and laugh..._

For a split instant in time, the world slowed down, and all I could hear in my ringing ears was the sound of my own beating heart and Matchstick's frantic struggles for oxygen; all I could see was Stitches taking a bullet to the chest and falling down, down, down...

I was going to kill her.

A meaty hand closed over my shoulder suddenly and dragged me almost effortlessly away, effectively snapping me back into focus, and the metallic hissing sound told me who it was before I even turned to look.

"Enough," Bane's authoritative voice cut through the tension as he tossed me into a sea of smelly Goons, "take her to the courthouse and make sure she gets there in one piece. Dr. Crane is looking forward to sentencing this one in particular." he said as he turned away, and it didn't escape my notice that he paused over Stitches' body momentarily. Something flashed through his eyes, something that I would have called regret if I hadn't been one-hundred percent, certifiably _positive _that he didn't have a soul and thus was incapable of having feelings other than hatred and cold superiority. Something told me we'd be having a chat before I was sentenced to death (or maybe I'd get a little crazy and choose death by exile. I could do with some variety).

"You're pretty thick to quote The Code at me, Maestro! You just killed two people! You broke the only rule the Bat follows! How do you think he'd feel about you if he knew that?" Matchstick yelled as I was dragged away, her voice hoarse but her chin lifted in contempt as she nursed her black eye.

The look I shot her could have frozen fire.

"I don't know. But if I ever catch up with you, I plan on breaking it again. Watch your back."

And then I was dragged away, leaving the masked menace, the mole, three bodies and a massive puddle of blood in my wake.

**~DKR~**

Bane watched as the girl, dubbed 'Matchstick' by the very people she had just betrayed, fought a wince at the Maestro's threat. Despite her bold front, the girl was petrified of her former leader. However, the expression was gone as soon as it had appeared, and, with a smirk, she turned back to him, her gaze superior and smug.

"And you doubted me. I told you she'd come by here." she singsonged childishly, and his annoyance with her shot up a notch. They had had one or two face-to-face meetings before, and each time he had loathed her presence with a disgust he couldn't quite put his finger on. She was a coward of the cocky variety, confident only as long as she held all the aces, much the way Daggett had been. There were few people more bothersome or, when they chose to be, dangerous. She was a loose canon, that was for certain.

Still, he remained silent, merely watching her, measuring her.

She stalked casually over to the dead body of the girl the Maestro had seemed so attached to, either oblivious or uncaring of his stare and giving another of her simpering smirks at the sight of the blood around her.

"I never liked this one. Always so loyal to that hussy. Her sister's no better."

Bane resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Now that you've taken care of your vendetta, would you care to explain why I do not already know the location of your base or Gordon's?"

The fire-obsessed teen actually had the nerve to _pout_ at him.

"That little brat keeps her notebooks hidden insanely well, so I couldn't find the address, and I got lost trying to track Maestro on her way to his base. Sadly, I'm no tracker. But I've been watching her, so I knew this was a route she favors. You gotta give me some credit for _that_."

Bane nearly grimaced beneath his mask.

"Yes, I marvel at your ability to fail at simple tasks. Stop avoiding the question. Where is your base?"

The childish gleam left her eyes within seconds, only to be replaced by calculating contempt.

"Contrary to what I know you think of me, Bane, I'm far from stupid. You don't leave loose ends. The instant I give you that intel you'll snap my neck, out of sheer annoyance with me if nothing else, and if it's all the same to you I'd like to get the chance to watch this city burn. I'll give the rebels to you in increments, five or six at a time, let's say, seven if I'm feeling generous, and in return I keep my life and get at least partial control of your Goons – I'm sorry, _followers – _to help me with my tasks."

Bane took a threatening step forward, even as the mental image of Barsad taking orders from this simpering teenager brought him as close as he could come to amusement.

"And what's to stop me from killing you now and finding it myself?"

Matchstick rolled her eyes, but it didn't escape his notice that she took the slightest step back.

"You really think I'd be standing here making this deal with you if I thought there was even the slightest chance of you finding it without my help? Again, not stupid. Face it, without me, you'd still be scratching your head, wondering who and what these people are. Maestro would have made off with _all_ of your ammo on the docks if I hadn't warned you something might happen, and you never would have known where our last base was located if I hadn't tipped you off. It's not my fault your lackeys are complete morons."

"We could have stopped this when it began if you had told me exactly what was going to occur at the docks." Bane replied, his mask hissing.

"Right, because _that_ wouldn't have been suspicious at all. Maestro had told her lieutenant two nights before that she didn't trust me in particular; I heard her say it. I would have been the first one they suspected, _particularly_ if I'd been one of the ones that got away if you caught them all." Matchstick snapped back, folding her arms. "The fact is, you need me. Maestro isn't going to talk, no matter what you do to her, and you haven't got a chance of getting anyone else to join your side. Kill me, and you'll only be worse off. I'm your best – strike that, your _only_ – option."

Bane felt a nagging stab of irritation and resisted the urge to scowl. All of this had occurred to him, of course, but he had wanted to hear the girl's reply. Now that his suspicions were confirmed and knowing she was far more intelligent than she appeared but every bit as intelligent as he had suspected, he was prepared to let her believe she had the upper hand for the sake of achieving his own purposes. Besides, he was more than willing to let the rebels live a little longer and believe they could continue on without their leader. Hope was a dangerous thing, and it made people, particularly children, act without thinking. They made mistakes when hope was in abundance, crucial ones, which would only serve to make it easier for him to make examples of them.

Turning his granite-grey gaze back on the traitor in front of him, he nodded once, allowing her to believe she had successfully managed to twist his arm as though the concept _wasn't_ completely laughable.

"Very well. Return to your base and let them know what has happened here. I imagine that should prompt one or two rash decisions on their part."

The girl gave another of her disgusting smirks and bowed mockingly.

"A pleasure doing business with you as always, Bane."

Then, with another satisfied glance at the dead girl before her, she turned sharply on her heel, kicking up a bit of blood onto her boots in the process, and left without once looking back.

**~DKR~**

The factory had finally been restored to some semblance of order, but Savvy was nevertheless eager for Maestro's return. The Young were amusing themselves with card games and music, but the restlessness in the room was nearly palpable. They wanted to be out and about and doing the things they'd joined The Young to do. Without the Maestro's controlling presence, Savvy knew it was only a matter of time until they began sneaking off to go on their rounds and deliver supplies. It was just their way.

The lieutenant frowned. Speaking of Maestro, where was she? She'd been under the impression that her leader had been planning to keep her meeting with Gordon brief, but it had been almost two hours and there was still no sign of her leader or the medic that had accompanied her.

Savvy shook herself. Maestro had been doing this for nearly nine years now; she knew how to take care of herself, knew not to take risks. Besides, she'd been in worse situations than walking across town and survived. Everything was fine; it had to be.

So why did she have that funny feeling in her gut, one that screamed the opposite was true?

"You're scowling again." The voice, masculine in nature, sounded right next to her ear, and she jumped before swinging a punch out of reflex. Luckily, she didn't make contact, because Jazz, the one who had surprised her, dodged it just in time, catching her arm before spinning her around to pin her against his chest, her back to his front.

"Hello to you too." the serious ginger-headed boy remarked dryly, the barest quirk of a smile on his lips.

She squirmed out of his grasp, furious.

"Can you _not!_? You almost gave me a freaking heart attack!" she practically hissed, storming away to show her displeasure. Jazz, of course, followed her.

"I noticed," he replied with a roll of his eyes, "What's bothering you?"

She sniffed, lifting her chin before descending the stairs that lead to the factory floor.

"Nothing's bothering me. I'm fine."

"Right, and the Batman is Bruce Wayne in disguise. Seriously, something's bugging you."

Savvy threw a glare over her shoulder as the pair of them made their way around various pieces of factory equipment.

"It's _nothing_, Jazz. Don't you have corners to lurk behind or something?"

Jazz made a face.

"I did, up until Maestro decided to make us play hide-and-seek. I still say that shouldn't apply to her lieutenants."

She hummed her agreement before warning a group of rebels to turn their music down; only after a glare from Jazz and the (admittedly terrifying) threat of Maestro's anger did they finally comply.

"Where is Maestro, anyway?" Jazz asked after a moment, before making a face, "She's not still with Gordon and Blake, is she?"

Savvy shrugged and was about to admit that that was what she had been wondering when he'd startled her, when a frantic cry from the front of the warehouse cut her off.

"Savvy! Jazz! _Someone!_"

Both lieutenants took off in the direction of the speaker, recognizing the voice instantly.

"Matchstick, what's wrong?" Savvy cried at the sight of the obviously distraught arsonist, who was already surrounded by several girls trying to soothe her as she cried.

"It's... it's Maestro!" she managed between sobs, trembling as tears leaked from her blue eyes.

"What? What happened?" Jazz demanded, his voice commanding and firm. Savvy suddenly found herself unable to speak.

_I knew something was wrong. I just knew it. _

"She... she was ambushed on her way back from Gordon's. Bane's got her." Matchstick whispered, sniffling. The steadily-growing crowd around them gasped in fear and outrage, then began muttering threats and battle plans. As discontented as they may have been, they were also loyal. She was their protector, their ally, and the one they rallied to. She had given them purpose and sanctuary when there had been nowhere else to run to. You didn't simply attack the Maestro, the leader of The Young, and expect to get away with it.

"What about Stitches?!" a voice from the back cried, and Savvy's heart sank to see Scout pushing her way through the crowd. The lieutenant knew. She couldn't explain it, but she _knew_ what fate had befallen the medic.

All eyes turned to Matchstick, who was trembling harder than ever. However, something seemed... _off_, somehow, and though her face and voice were sympathetic and pained, her eyes were strangely cold.

"Scout... Stitches is dead. Bane had his Goons kill her. I'm so sorry."

For an instant, her face bore such agony it was almost unbearable as a small cry left her lips, and then the little girl's eyes flicked to the arsonist's boots.

Savvy didn't have time to inspect what she saw, however, because Scout went pale almost alarmingly fast, her blue eyes widening as they snapped back up to her face. She seemed to see something in Matchstick, something lost to the rest of the onlookers, Savvy included, and when she spoke her voice was almost inaudible.

"Maestro was right not to trust you." Then she dropped to the ground in a dead faint.

The crowd made sounds of collective alarm as Jazz scooped the younger girl up easily, mindful of her injured arm, and handed her off to a group of girls that had assisted Stitches frequently in her medical routine.

"Take her to the medical ward and stay with her. We'll be there in a minute." he instructed as Savvy turned her gaze back to Matchstick, who was sobbing harder than before.

A seed of suspicion had been planted in her mind, and this time she had no intention of ignoring her gut.

"How did you find out about this?" she demanded, all of her calm, friendly demeanor gone. Her best friend had just been captured and an innocent medic killed, leaving her twelve-year-old sister alone. Now wasn't the time for calm or friendly.

"I... I was out walking; I needed to clear my head. I heard a gunshot and went to investigate. Bane and a bunch of Goons had cornered Maestro and Stitches on their way back. I was hiding on the roof above the alley; I almost didn't believe it." Matchstick replied through her tremors.

"You didn't think to call for help, to use a signal or anything?" Savvy demanded again, firing the second question at her without pause after hearing her reply.

"I was so terrified; I didn't know what to do! I couldn't think or move or anything!"

"You couldn't or you didn't?" Savvy shot back, anger rising. She was getting more and more suspicious by the minute; something wasn't adding up.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" the arsonist snapped back, flame in her eyes now.

"Savvy, I get that you're upset, but you can't blame Matchstick! This isn't her fault!" another arsonist, one who went by the name Cinders and was often seen hanging around the girl in question, defended, putting a supporting arm around her shoulder.

Savvy wasn't so sure. Matchstick wasn't the type to be paralyzed under fire; in fact, she was always more level-headed when situations were at their most dangerous. It was part of what made her such a useful person to have around; she was capable of thinking on her feet and rarely, if ever, did she let a set of circumstances overcome her. So why, when a fellow rebel had just been killed and her leader surrounded, did she suddenly freeze up?

_Something's wrong with this picture. _

Still frowning, she forced her ire out of her eyes and nodded.

"You're right, of course. I didn't mean to accuse you, Matchstick. You did well in coming to tell us. I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't taken a walk today." Savvy said, watching the girl's eyes narrow slightly at her subtle implication of the coincidence.

"Come on, Matchstick, you need to lie down." Cinders soothed, beginning to lead the other arsonist away. Savvy held her gaze up until she passed her, and when she did, her eyes flicked down to her boots for the briefest second, wondering what Scout had seen there.

What she saw confirmed her suspicions, and she traded a glance with Jazz, who had seen it as well.

_Blood. _

If she'd been on the rooftop like she'd claimed, how did the blood get there?

_Maestro was right not to trust her. I should have seen it before. _

One look into Jazz's eyes was enough to confirm that his thoughts echoed hers. With a nod at one another, the pair of lieutenants turned and walked to the planning table, determination and the need for vengeance shining in both their eyes.

You didn't sell out The Young and get away with it, either.

**~DKR~**

I was pacing.

My ears, particularly my right, which had been facing the gunshot, were still ringing, though less painfully than before, and my hands were still coated in the blood of three people. One innocent, the others not.

_I killed them. _

Stitches' necklace swung between my fingers as I paced, my boots echoing off the concrete of the holding cell forlornly.

_I just killed two people. _

My mind warred with itself.

_They were Goons. They weren't worth the energy you used to swing the blade. They were murderers. Do you think they would have been this broken up if they'd killed you?  
_

_That doesn't make it right._

_They killed Stitches. Of course it does._

_Stitches... _

A fresh wave of guilt rolled over me as I thought of the murdered girl, the only family Scout had left. She was alone now.

"_Watch over my little sister. Watch over Scout. Promise me." _

Stitches' words echoed verbatim through my brain, the exact inflections and pitch ringing as clear as though she'd only just spoken them. If I'd wanted to, I could mimic it perfectly. It was part of having perfect pitch. As a result, I would never be able to _forget_ her words; they were permanently ingrained into my memory.

"_I swear it on my life." _

My own response was clear as well, slamming more guilt into the pit of my stomach as I realized I wouldn't be able to keep the promise. My batons and knife had been taken, though my mask had been left, and I had no chance of fighting back against the dozens of armed Goons waiting in the courtroom.

A familiar hissing noise met my ears, breaking into my thoughts as it grew steadily closer to my cell, and I spun to face the bars as the face of the single most hated man in Gotham reached them.

"Bane." I hissed, fury pumping like poison in my veins.

"I warned you, little girl," his voice, metallic and cold, broke through the ringing in my ears, "that I would crush you and your rebellion. A pity you did not believe me."

I kept my gaze locked with his. The time for being weak was over; the Maestro had to take back control. I let her.

"She was just a medic. She was no threat to you." I responded, already knowing what his response would be.

His voice was mocking.

"_You_ aren't a threat to me. However, she _was_ in the way. If her life meant anything to her, she would have never become involved with you."

"I think it's the other way around, actually. It's _because_ her life meant something to her that she joined me. She wanted a chance, she wanted hope, and I provided it. I still am." I shot back, permitting the arrogance to bleed through my tone.

"You will not be a symbol for much longer; rather, you will be an example, just as she now is." Bane replied, his eyes as cold as his voice.

I allowed the mocking, scornful laugh to slip past my lips. I was going to die, but the rest of my rebels were safe, out of reach. What more had I to fear?

"Is _that_ what you think happened? Banesy, that's so wrong it's almost _painful_. You didn't make her an example, you made her a martyr. The same will go for me when I'm gone. Rebels will rally faster to the dead than the living, because the dead can't make mistakes anymore. They've become immortalized; they gave their lives for a cause, so others will be even more willing to do the same. Believe me, I know The Young, and this will only strengthen their resolve. Besides," I leaned against the bars, my masked face inches from his own, "you think I haven't _planned_ for this situation? When I'm dead, another will step up to take my place. The Maestro will live on, even if I don't. And my lieutenants are smart. They'll figure out Matchstick's a psycho eventually. There is _no_ version of this where you win."

Bane's eyes grew even colder, if that was possible, and I was fairly certain that if there hadn't been bars between us, he would have snapped my neck then and there. Absently, I wondered what was stopping him. It wasn't like he couldn't just break the bars with his bare hands or anything.

"I have already won, little girl. Neither your rebels nor Gordon's have a chance of stopping me."

"I think they'll have a better chance once The Batman comes back." I replied without missing a beat, leaping back nanoseconds before his hand could make contact with my throat. I smirked at him, keeping just out of reach.

"This is familiar. You've had me trapped for a while now, Banesy, and yet you still can't catch me. One almost wonders whether your heart's really in it."

"The Batman is dead," he replied with more force than I'd ever heard him use, as he was not a man – _monster_ – who often lost his cool, "and you will join him soon enough. As will the rest of your pointless rebellion."

I scoffed, barely reigning in my laughter.

"Keep repeating it, Bane; maybe you'll manage to convince yourself. And if my rebellion is as pointless as you say, why are you trying so desperately to crush it?"

"Examples must be made. Dissension and rebellion will not be tolerated."

"You expect us to just lie down and _take_ it? I think you're afraid we'll win. I think you think I give people too much hope. A little hope can crush someone overtime, but I give people enough to fight back. And I think that scares you."

"You take me for a man easily scared?"

"No. That would imply that you are, in fact, a _man_, and not a monster. I take you for a behemoth that puts too much faith in his own flawed rhetoric." I snapped back, reveling in the feel of power I suddenly held. I had nothing to lose, and consequently nothing to hold back.

He stared at me, long and hard, and I might have imagined the glimmer of respect that lay in his steel grey eyes. I thought back to the emotion that had crossed his face when he looked at Stitches' dead body earlier and mentally scoffed.

_Since when does this guy have feelings? You'd think he used to be human or something. _

"I am afraid your own words are flawed, little girl. You speak with all the confidence of someone with an army by their side, yet look where you are. You are alone. Your rebels cannot save you; all of your efforts to free this city from my grasp have only granted you your own downfall. Where is the reward in that?"

I looked at him, letting him see the absolute conviction in my eyes.

"And you think surviving is a reward?"

Something flashed in his gaze, and, somehow, I knew I'd managed to catch him off guard.

"My rebels are still out there, ready to fight in my place once the light leaves my eyes, and I've got someone waiting for me on the other side. Where, exactly, is my downfall?" I asked, looking into his face one last time before turning away to pace again, finished with the conversation and strangely at peace with my fate.

Yes, I still felt guilty that I'd killed two men, and yes, I still felt guilty because I couldn't save Stitches, but in a short while that wouldn't matter. In a short while I'd be with my mother, and everything would be okay again.

And, as Bane stared at me for a moment longer and gradually left, I couldn't help but smirk. I'd said my piece to the masked menace, now all that was left was to humiliate Crane in front of his Kangaroo Court, and I could go out in style.

**~DKR~**

Savvy looked over the map in her hands one last time, just to be thorough and because Maestro would have had her head for not doing it if she'd been there, before folding it up and placing it in the messenger bag on her waist. She began running through a mental checklist, making sure she'd taken care of everything the way Maestro would have. She'd assigned a few trusted rebels to look after the base and the still-unconscious Scout while they were away, discreetly of course, since no one, especially not the traitor Matchstick, was supposed to know they were leaving. At the moment, she and Jazz were both barricaded in a back office, the window open wide behind them, ready for their escape. She rolled her neck around and tried to breathe, attempting to quell her racing nerves.

Beside her, Jazz was loading supplies into a bag of his own, and she pointedly looked away when she saw that two of the objects were nine millimeter guns. She wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of possibly breaking the code, but she was also willing to do anything to get Maestro back, no matter how much blood had to be spilled, and she knew Jazz was as well.

_This is what war does, _she mused, _it bends and pushes everyone to extremes._

The pair of lieutenants traded glances, and, with another nod, they climbed out the window and into the cold air of Gotham.

_We're coming Maestro. Just hang on. _

**~DKR~**

I was calm as the pair of Goons yanked me from my cell and hustled me down the hall into the atrium, an exact replica of the walk I'd made when I'd come here to rescue Scout. Stitches' pendant was tucked into my shirt; I could think of nowhere else to put it where it wouldn't be seen, even if I didn't fully trust Bane's disgusting excuses for men to keep their hands to themselves.

Just like last time, I was forced to wait outside the doors, guarded, of course, while another Goon went in and alerted Crane to my presence. Apparently I was the only one on trial today.

_I'm flattered. _

And then the doors were opened and I was herded in, my hands bound in front of me as I was forcefully guided towards the man that had destroyed my life.

I was irritated at the twist of fear that took hold in my stomach; how I could stare Bane in the face and taunt him without a shred of trepidation and yet merely know Crane was a few yards away and nearly panic was entirely beyond me.

It didn't escape my notice that the jeering crowd now consisted entirely of adults with not an adolescent in sight. I smirked.

_Aw, look at that. The precious baby Goons are _learning_. How sweet. _

The blonde girl from last time was no longer there, but I was hardly surprised. If Bane trusted her enough to give her a gun, he probably trusted her enough to let her choose where to spend her day.

_Heck, if I had the option, I wouldn't be here either. _

And then I was forced into a chair – _that's new_ – in front of the massive pile of suitcases, books, and desks that served as the judge's podium and I couldn't avoid it any longer. The crowd ceased their jeering (apparently they were particularly excited to have me there) as a gavel was slammed down, making me wince as the noise slammed through my buzzing ears, and I raised my eyes for the second time in a week to meet Jonathan Crane's.

I was petrified again, paralyzed and already trembling in fear.

_How can one man hold so much power over me without even knowing? _

"We _really_ have to stop meeting like this." The words left my mouth before I could stop them, but I didn't want to take them back. If I ran my mouth, I could keep the fear at bay.

I might have imagined the smirk that crossed his features as a Goon stepped forward and forcibly ripped the mask from my face. I winced.

_And here was me hoping they'd just leave it on. So much for that. _

The crowd murmured some more, but a cold glance from Crane shut them up without the aid of a gavel, for which I was secretly grateful.

There was silence a moment as he studied me, and I tried to not squirm or lower my eyes.

_Come on Maestro, you're better than this! He's just a man!_

"May Strowe? Clever. It took me longer than it should have to figure it out last time we met." he greeted, and I raised an eyebrow, trying hard not to feel exposed and keep the Maestro in control at the same time. His voice was as smooth as mercury and just as poisonous.

"_That's_ hardly surprising." I muttered, prompting a chuckle or two from the crowd.

He opened his mouth to respond, but I interrupted him. I was about to die. I might as well let him know who he was killing.

_It's time, _The Maestro murmured, and I agreed.

"We've met before, you know." I said, leaning back in my chair and idly wishing for my batons to help me relax. I settled for drumming a rhythm on my jeans instead, knowing my hands were still covered in dried blood.

My statement gave him pause, if only slightly.

"Oh?" he asked, sounding almost bored.

"Yes. Almost nine years ago now. That night you attacked the Narrows."

There was wicked pleasure in his eyes now, and I remembered he'd worn a similar expression the last time I'd mentioned it. I fought the urge to grimace.

_Sicko. _

"If you expect me to remember everyone I crossed paths with that night, you are sorely mistaken." he replied easily.

I gave him a saccharine smile.

"Oh, well I guess it makes sense you wouldn't remember everything. I suppose taking a taser to the face would be pretty traumatic."

His eyes went from mocking to cold in half a second as the crowd around us began to murmur again.

"What are you talking about?"

I cocked my head at him, before sitting back and crossing my legs, the picture of relaxation.

"You really don't remember the late Rachel Dawes tasing you right between the eyes? You were on a horse, and shouting some nonsense about fear with that stupid mask on your face. It was pretty funny, looking back. I thought men could only scream that high if someone cut off their-"

"Who are you?" he demanded. He obviously remembered very well, but he hadn't expected anyone else to. His eyes were darker than they should have been and his voice was an octave deeper than normal. Only I would have been able to detect the latter, but something about his posture told me the doctor was no longer in.

_Hello, Scarecrow. Nice to see you again. _

I forced myself to meet his hostile gaze.

"Rachel Dawes had two children with her, do you remember? A little boy, and a girl you tried to trample."

Shocked recognition flashed in his eyes before I'd even finished speaking, which surprised me. I hadn't actually expected him to get it that fast. He sat forward, something I didn't understand blazing in his eyes.

"_You_ were the one with the pretty scream."

My heart leaped into my throat and I knew I stiffened visibly.

_No no no no no. No no. This is bad. This is very, very bad. He's not supposed to remember me, not like that! _

While I was busy panicking internally, Bane's voice sounded from somewhere behind me, echoing off the walls.

"Dr. Crane, if you would get on with the sentencing?" his voice was amiable enough, but laced with warning.

Crane (or technically Scarecrow) held his gaze for a moment and looked as though he might refuse, before he relaxed slightly and his eyes went from dark to light. He turned them on me, and this time I _know_ he saw my trembling.

"Very well. How does the accused wish to have her sentence carried out? Death, or exile?" his voice was normal again, and I was pretty sure it was the doctor speaking now.

I met his gaze, still petrified, but not enough to render me speechless.

"E- Exile." I stammered (which was irritating because I don't _stammer_, ever). As terrified as I was, I was sticking to my plan. If I was going to die, it would _not_ be by someone else's hand.

He gave another smirk and slammed that freaking gavel down again, harder than before, and I cringed visibly.

"Sold! To the girl with the sexy scream."

The crowd erupted into cheers, which only served to aggravate my ears further, and as I was hoisted to my feet and lead away, my eyes met Crane's. There was something new in them, something I didn't understand.

Something told me that, whatever it was, it could only mean trouble.

Guess what? I wasn't wrong.

**~DKR~**

Savvy felt the winter wind whip through her hair and frowned as she looked over the frozen bay. The sun was out; that meant Maestro would literally be walking on thin ice. She scoffed.

_I've never been so glad she doesn't eat._

"You're sure she'll choose exile?" Jazz called from behind her, pulling her from her thoughts and removing a coil of rope from his bag before tossing it to her.

She nodded, catching the object easily and pulling on the cord to test it's strength.

"You've known her for as long as I have, Jazz; you really think she'll want to sit down and wait for someone to put a bullet in her head?"

Jazz shook his red hair away from his eyes and paused in his work.

"Point."

Savvy nodded and began digging her own supplies out of her messenger bag.

_Please let this work._

**~DKR~**

Outwardly, I was poised and calm as I was lead to the bay, but inwardly I was a bundle of nerves.

Crane had joined us.

_Crane never comes to watch the sentence be carried out! I'm not that special! _

I really, really hated my big mouth sometimes, knowing it was all because I'd reminded him of who I was.

I felt the cold metal of Stitches' pendant press into my chest from where it was concealed inside my shirt as the Goons in front of me opened the gate. I couldn't help but feel that she was watching me. Was she upset with me for already breaking my promise to her? Was she angry? I didn't know, because I hadn't known her that well in life.

_Well, I guess I'm about to find out, aren't I?_

I was pulled rather roughly through the gate, Crane and five more Goons close behind, and I grimaced at the sight of the spider-like lines marring the surface of the ice.

_Of course, it _would_ be sunny today. It's literally only been sunny five times in the six weeks since we were taken over, and it chooses _today_ to come out again. Why is this my life? _

"Follow the thick ice. Try to swim, you'll be dead in minutes." a Goon had the courtesy to warn me, though it wasn't like I didn't know that already. In this temperature, that water would probably kill me in less than five minutes, six at the most.

"You got it, Sunshine." I replied as my handcuffs were removed, and, without hesitation, I stepped onto the ice.

I felt it give only slightly beneath me, and I knew that if I wasn't as underweight as I was then it probably would have cracked in seconds. I looked ahead of me, at the gleaming city that wasn't overrun by a madman, at the city where I would be safe.

I couldn't think of anywhere else I wanted to be _less_.

For anyone else, it would have been a blessing to make it across, but me? If I, by some twist of fate, managed to make it across, what then? I couldn't live knowing my rebels were fighting alone and I was safe. I was stunned to realize that if I made it, the first thing I would do was find a way back.

_It's official. I'm insane._

This in mind, I took another tentative step, encouraged when the ice didn't give at all. I continued on, painstakingly slowly, but the ice hadn't made a sound since that first step.

After a few minutes of this incredible fun, I paused and glance behind me. I hadn't made it very far, which irritated me because apparently there was no reason to take it slow.

_Okay. Let's liven things up a bit._

With a grin, I stuck my tongue out at the men behind me and began to dance across the ice. There was a method to my madness, of course; I still had to remain light on my feet, I just needed to do it _faster_. Dancing seemed like a better option than flat-out running at this point. I leaped and pirouetted, having flashbacks that I hadn't thought of in years of ballet classes I'd taken in grade school before money got too tight for me to continue. As long as I remained in the shadow of the bridge in front of me, the ice was strong enough to support my antics.

_Huh. Maybe I _won't_ die today. Hold onto your hat, Stitches, I may just be able to make good on my promise after all. _

And then something hit me in the face.

I paused.

_What the...?_

It was a length of rope, extending all the way up to the top of the bridge.

_Wait, that's not just _any_ rope..._

A bit of something metallic hung out from the bottom, and I recognized it instantly for what it was. Piano wire. Jazz had invented this before The Young had been founded, finding that placing the wire inside made it stronger than regular rope and took more than a few hacks to cut.

A tune drifted down to me, one I'd composed two weeks after I'd met my lieutenants; it was our special song.

"Hey!" A Goon called from behind me, "Get going!"

Apparently, he couldn't see the rope, and I was too far away for him to hear the tune. I didn't have time to wonder how my lieutenants had found me or how much they knew; all that mattered was getting away at this point.

_Guys, I hope you have a plan, because _they_ have guns. _

I muttered a quick prayer, and, with a bracing inhale, I leaped and began scaling the rope, nearly as agilely as Scout.

The gunshots began immediately, and while I tensed around the rope and my ears shrieked their protest for the second time that day, I realized the first few sounded like they were... above me? I risked a glance upwards, and sure enough, my two lieutenants were firing at the Goons on the shoreline, forcing them to take cover before they could fire at me.

_Well played. _

I continued to climb, aware that the Goons were now firing back, and it wasn't Savvy and Jazz they were aiming at. The noise level was nearly unbearable, and I wondered how much more of this my eardrums could take. With a curse, I began to swing on the rope, hoping against hope this would throw their aim off some.

Apparently it did, because none of their shots made contact. At least, not at first.

I was about twenty-five feet from the first tier of the bridge; if I could make it there I was safe. However, there was about fifteen feet of open air below me, and below that? Water cold enough to kill me within minutes.

I blocked out all of this and continued to climb. I blocked the deafening noise, the sights, the memory of the light in Crane's eyes, Stitches dying, Matchstick smirking; I blocked all of this and continued up.

I almost made it, too.

And then the feeling of metal tearing through flesh hit my right shoulder, the very same shoulder Scout had taken a bullet to, and I cried out as my grip on that hand went slack. I was now hanging suspended in the air by only my left arm.

Above me, I heard Savvy scream and Jazz swear mightily, but I couldn't hold on. My shoulder was killing me and there was so much blood and the _noise_...

I looked below me.

_Sorry Stitches, I guess I failed you after all. You can chew me out for it in a few minutes. _

I looked up one last time, and in that moment both lieutenants met my eyes and they knew what was going to happen a split second before it did.

_See you in a second, Mom._

I let go, hearing Savvy scream my name again as I fell down, down, down...

And then there was a white-hot burst of pain and it was _cold_, and everything went black.

**A/N: I can _feel_ the fury you're sending my way right now. Sorry, it had to be done. Leaving cliffhangers is some of the most fun an author can have. ;) So, I get out two days early for the holidays because I am exempt from my exams (yes, I'm boasting of my exploits, I worked hard for those bragging rights!) so the next chapter may be out a little sooner than normal. Of course, that all depends on the reviews... Seriously guys, I really wanna know what you think. This was a fun chapter to write! _ALSO, I NEED A COVER FOR THIS FIC! PM ME IF YOU'RE INTERESTED!_ :)**

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Angel With a Shotgun" by The Cab, submitted by Wolfshadows32! Congratulations!  
**

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! **

**Special thanks also to** omnomchocolate, MockingjayWolf, AlainHotCoco1, ShawneeSavage, DesdemonaEmo13, ShyGirl, Eva Sirico, WithNoFear, Sam0728, SilverBulletAngel, Silentflier, WarriorDragonElf54,** and** a random bat **for reviewing, as well as everyone who favorited or alerted! You guys make my life!**

**Next chapter will be out soon, and it's been scientifically proven that REVIEWS cause better and faster work ethic in writers. Try it and see for yourself! :) **

**P.S. I will be taking down my _Sherlock_ stories on the 31st. For a full, and apologetic, explanation, please see my profile. **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	9. The Scream

**For Your Entertainment**

_And suddenly I'm 5 years old  
And I'm just so cold I want to cry  
I haul up on my gentlemen  
Who have always been there in hard times  
They're just not like that man of mine  
Who visits me from time to time_

_I hear that summer's coming back  
So I stretch out my back and travel on  
The winter though it darkens me  
It is pure and clean and all I want  
I'll apologize to the ones I love  
For leaving them when the sun comes up_

_Too bright for me, darkness descends_  
_Oh well I'm not well again and once more darkness it descends_  
_The ground is falling under me_  
_And I can't find the means to leave._

_Chapter VIII_

_The Scream_

_(Warning: this chapter contains dark themes. Read at your own discretion.)_

_She's dreaming of that night as she so often does now, dreaming of the Fear Night when she'd lost everything. _

_Except this time, her angel doesn't come. _

_She's running as fast as she can down the alleys of the Narrows, the mist rising ever more steadily around her, and still he is nowhere to be found. _

"**You**_** were the one with the pretty scream,**" a gravelly voice all but shouts from the opening of the alley, dead ahead of her, and sure enough, _he_ is there, the nightmare on his horse. And, yes, the horse is breathing fire. _

_The girl bites down on her knuckles to keep herself from giving him what he wants – to keep herself from screaming – and quickly attempts to backpedal, except her feet don't seem to want to move. _

_Her angel doesn't come. _

_Slowly, lazily, the rider urges his horse forward and towards her, and the girl is still rooted to the spot. _

"_**We're going to have such **_**fun**_** together,**" the nightmare speaks again, sending shivers of sheer horror racing down her spine. _

_Where is her angel?_

_The rider reaches her; he is so close now she can count the writhing worms that make up his face if she wishes. _

_But... there's something else there now, something she hadn't noticed before and, in all honesty, _wouldn't_ have noticed if it weren't for his current close proximity. _

_The nightmare's eyes are very, very blue. _

_They are the blue of the heart of flame, so easily concealed by brilliant orange; they are the blue of the sea, writhing at the hands of a merciless and unrelenting wind. They are the eyes of someone who has mastered fear and brought it to heel; the eyes of someone who is no longer human. _

_For a moment, the girl stands transfixed in his gaze, and what need has she of an angel when the specter before her could _command_ angels if he so desired? _

_But then she tears her eyes away from his and sees the worms and the fire and hears the screams, sounding loudly through the mist around her, and whimpers for her angel once again. _

_He doesn't come. _

_As the nightmare reaches down to her, his cold laughter grating on her sensitive ears, the panic finally hits home. _

_The alley walls echo with her screams. _

**~DKR~**

Jazz was quite certain he had never run so fast in his entire life. Since he'd spent the vast majority of his sixteen years running – from his father, foster homes, cops, and, more recently, Goons – that was saying something.

He had sent Savvy, who was nearly in shock from what they had just witnessed, back to the base to keep an eye on things (read: Matchstick) until he could bring help; she was in no state to be out in the streets.

_All the more reason to get to Gordon quickly._

As much as Jazz hated the cops of Gotham city, he was smart enough to know when he was out of options. With the base infiltrated by the enemy and his leader... _indisposed_ – he mentally cringed at the reminder – they would need help.

With any luck, Gordon and that rookie detective who'd been making eyes at Maestro would at least be competent enough to help them figure out what to do.

_Besides,_ he admitted grudgingly, _Maestro would want them to know what's happened to her._

And, at least for the moment, what Maestro wanted took precedence over his own opinions.

Spotting the address where Gordon was supposedly located, he put on an extra burst of speed and raced for the side door directly ahead of him. Bursting through, he was hardly surprised when approximately twenty guns were immediately leveled at his chest, and he fought a sneer as he skidded to a halt.

"That's a bit much for one unarmed teenager, don't you think?" he snapped angrily, his hands raised by his head as he channeled Maestro's signature snark.

The men didn't lower their weapons; instead an older man with thinning brown hair stepped forward from among them, his brows drawn in a deep scowl.

_Deputy commissioner Foley, _the lieutenant identified with disdain, having made it a point of personal pride to recognize the cops who had been the most outspoken against the Batman. For him, knowing the cops and their beliefs had been a matter of who simply not to trust, and who to despise.

"What are you doing here, son?" Foley demanded, and Jazz sneered at him.

"I need to see Gordon." When they hesitated, the boy glowered. "_Now_." He didn't have time to waste on adults who were too slow to recognize an emergency when it slapped them in the face.

"Gordon's out. You can talk to me or scram, kid." Foley barked, nodding at his men, who stepped forward to escort him from the room.

"Get me Detective Blake then! It's an emergency!" Jazz exclaimed, fighting against both the men and the steadily-increasing urge to start begging. Every moment he wasted, Maestro could be... he swallowed and didn't finish the thought as the men continued to drag him out the door.

"Hey!"

Jazz didn't know whether to grimace or sigh with relief when Blake stepped out of a back room, his face bearing a look of concern. Gordon was next to him, hands on his hips.

"Let him go." Blake commanded as Foley turned skeptical eyes on him.

"You know this kid?"

Blake nodded and turned back to the lieutenant, who was straightening his jacket angrily after being so roughly manhandled.

"Jazz, isn't it? What's wrong?"

_Cops. Slower than Christmas, the lot of them. _

Jazz resisted the urge to pace, his leader's plight crowding out even his distaste for the people in front of him.

"It's about Maestro."

At the mention of her name, Blake's eyes widened and his stance tensed, and Gordon's hands fell from his sides.

"What? What's happened?"

"Maestro? As in, _The_ Maestro? That vigilante girl we've been tracking for years, the one obsessed with The Batman?" Foley cut in, looking back and forth between the three of them, lost.

Jazz disregarded his question in favor of the more important matter at hand.

"She was ambushed on her way back to our base. Bane took her to the courthouse, where she was tried by Crane."

Blake swore, and something shifted in Gordon's eyes as his hands clenched into tentative fists by his sides.

"And the girl that was with her, what happened to her?" He asked the question softly, as if he knew the answer already but was afraid to hear it.

"You mean Stitches?" Jazz inquired warily, wondering why the older man cared so much. Cops weren't supposed to _care_, not like this.

"Yes."

The lieutenant's gaze locked with that of the commissioner, his jaw set.

"She's dead. Killed instantly, from what we heard. They didn't even bother taking her to the courthouse."

Gordon's response was explosive and instantaneous as he swore, cursing Bane to hell and back, and kicked over a chair in his anger.

Jazz was taken completely by surprise at the outburst, and he eyed the commissioner warily. The lieutenant hadn't known Stitches all that well; much like Maestro, he'd been closer to her sister. However, what he did know about Stitches was that she was innocent and quite possibly the last person who deserved to die this way, but even that didn't explain Gordon's heated reaction. He was aware that the medic had gone to meet the commissioner, and they had probably talked, but what could possibly have caused a normally levelheaded man like Gordon to become so enraged over the death of a girl he barely knew?

"What's going on Gordon? Who's Stitches? Are you telling me you teamed up with a bunch of kids?" Foley asked, seemingly oblivious to the commissioner's rage as the latter braced his hands against a table, his back to the rest of them in an obvious attempt to regain control. Again, Foley was ignored.

"How did this happen? Maestro was paranoid; she wouldn't have told just anyone where she was going. Was she followed?" Blake demanded, casting a careful and concerned eye on Gordon.

Jazz snapped out of his thoughts and pulled his gaze away from the commissioner, forcing his mind back to Maestro.

"That's where things get... complicated. A few days ago, right before our raid on the docks-"

"That was _you_?" Foley demanded, incredulous.

Irritated with all of the interruptions, Jazz channeled Maestro's death glare and aimed it directly at him.

"Don't you have parking tickets to give out or something?" Jazz snapped, and when Foley opened his mouth to retort, Gordon spun back around.

"Foley, I'll give you the details later. Just let him talk." There was a dangerous glint in his normally friendly eyes, one that Jazz would have expected to see in the face of a general whose army had just taken a heavy loss, and Foley was smart enough not to push any further. He sat down in a nearby chair, looking slightly miffed, and the cops that had been surrounding Jazz backed off.

"As I was saying, just before our raid on the docks, our last base was nearly discovered. Maestro overheard the Goons talking, and apparently someone had left our address at the courthouse. She began to suspect then that we had a mole. Bane showed up on our raid the next day, something Maestro hadn't planned for and our scouts hadn't been aware of. He took a few of them captive, but as you know she was able to get them back. One of the kids that was taken was a spy, I believe you met her." Jazz said at Gordon's answering nod, "Apparently, Bane had spoken with her and verified that we had a mole, because he thought the girl he was talking to was going to die anyway. After that, Maestro was insanely careful with her plans, only revealing them to me, Savvy, Scout, the girl Bane spoke to, and Stitches. And now Savvy and I have a good idea who's been selling us out."

"Well?" Blake demanded.

Jazz frowned at him.

"Her name's Matchstick, and ten points to Gryffindor if you can guess what her job is. She's one of the older ones, and she's got a reputation for abandoning the plan to do her own thing when it suits her. She came running into the base a few hours after Maestro left, wailing about how she'd been out for a walk to clear her head, something she wasn't supposed to be doing anyway, and had just so happened to stumble upon Bane ambushing Maestro." he replied, running a hand through his fire-engine red hair.

"It's suspicious, son, but are you sure you aren't jumping to conclusions because you're worried?" Gordon asked quietly from where he was leaning against the table.

"You really are a model cop, aren't you?" Jazz spat, contempt bubbling to the surface of his voice, "I'm sure that would be a logical possibility if it weren't for the fact she claims she saw everything from a rooftop and yet somehow magically has blood on her boots. She was definitely a part of the ambush."

"You said only four people knew Maestro's plans. I can understand how this happened if Matchstick followed her, but then wouldn't Bane have come here as well?" Blake asked, crossing his arms.

Jazz shook his head.

"Matchstick is smart, but her forte is fire. She's not a scout, and Maestro's an expert at shaking people who might be following her. It's instinctive for her to take complicated paths and double back several times, so I think she lost Matchstick on the way here. But Maestro's human, and if she gets comfortable with something and gets away with it enough she'll continue to do it. Offhand, I can think of at least three routes she sticks to when she goes to different parts of town. There's a particular route nearby she likes; Matchstick probably knew about it and told Bane."

"Have you seen where it happened for yourself?" Gordon inquired.

Jazz shook his head again.

"No. After Matchstick came and told us what had happened, probably to throw suspicion off of herself, Savvy and I went to help Maestro."

"What happened?" Blake asked, sounding hesitant and not meeting his eyes. Like Gordon earlier, he was afraid of the answer.

"She chose exile, like we knew she would." Jazz responded absently as he stared off into the middle distance, still partially unable to believe what had happened.

"She's dead?" Blake asked, something defeated ringing in his voice that irritated Jazz in a brotherly sort of way.

He fixed the detective with a haunted look.

"Worse. Crane's got her."

**~DKR~**

_(Earlier)_

Cold.

Ice cold.

The sensation bit and tore at the bloody, gaping wound in my shoulder.

I couldn't breathe.

_So much water..._

I was drowning.

And then... air. Air and sunlight, sunlight that streamed through my closed eyelids and warmed them, if nothing else.

"Get her on shore! Quickly, you idiots!"

_I know that voice... _

There was something hard and cold beneath my back.

My shoulder hurt. I smelled blood.

"What do you want us to do with her, Boss?" I didn't know this voice.

There was a moment of silence, then...

"Bring her to me."

And all was dark.

**~DKR~**

Savvy was pacing.

_This is all our fault._

She tried to steady herself, especially since she and Jazz had agreed not to let anyone know what had happened at the bridge until after he'd spoken with Gordon, but she couldn't keep still.

_If we hadn't interfered, maybe she would have made it across. Maybe... _

Around her, the rebels were growing increasingly restless. Once Savvy had managed to stifle the questions about why they weren't rescuing her – the true answer being they had no idea where Crane had taken Maestro – The Young had skulked off to their corners to wait anxiously. They had no clue what would become of them without their leader, and more than once the lieutenant caught drifting whispers of those who were making plans to desert.

_Jazz, please hurry. We're losing them. _

Savvy had managed to calm them some by claiming that she and Jazz were acting on one of Maestro's contingencies and that a plan was in place, which wasn't a total lie. Contingency Plan Duet was simply Savvy taking on the persona of Maestro if something happened to the original, which, in a sense, she was doing. But Savvy's only real plan at this point was going to Gordon for help. Both her leader and fellow lieutenant may not have trusted him, but Savvy... Savvy didn't either, exactly, but she knew he was capable, and, for the moment, he was their only hope.

She was pulled from her thoughts by Gambit, one of Scout's best spies, approaching her with a concerned look on her face.

"Savvy, Scout's awake. She's asking for you."

Savvy surveyed the girl, recalling that they were the same age, both sixteen, and that Scout spoke very highly of her; apparently she was extremely musical, athletic, and quick-witted. There was no deceit in her green eyes, which glittered with some pained emotion. The Young's spy detail was a very close-knit group; they looked out for and defended one another. She supposed the family that gathered top-secret intelligence together, stayed together.

After a moment, Savvy decided she could trust her and followed the spy to the medical ward. After what had just happened, the lieutenant finally could understand how Maestro was suspicious of everyone and trusted precious few.

It was a very lonely life to lead.

Scout was sitting on a mattress when they arrived at the medical room, her chin resting on the tops of her knees, which were pulled tightly to her chest. Her injured arm was tucked between her torso and legs, looking as though she was sheltering a broken wing as she stared blankly at the wall in front of her, seemingly oblivious to the groans of other rebels around her or the noise outside the room. Occasionally a tear would slip down her cheeks, but otherwise she was still as a statue, her face impassive.

Savvy approached gently, crouching down to meet her at eye level.

"Scout honey... how are you feeling?" She could mentally picture Maestro rolling her eyes at the mothering tone she was using; her leader was more of a "tough love" sort of person.

At the sound of her voice, the twelve-year-old looked up at her, blue eyes vacant and swimming with tears.

"Is Maestro... is she dead? Like Stitches?" she asked in a small voice.

Savvy ran a hand through her hair and looked down, trying to figure out how best to answer the question. It was obvious that, now that Scout had no one, she would try to cling to her hero; the one person she trusted most. The spy had already fainted once; Savvy wasn't sure how much more grief she could take, not when she was so close to Maestro. After a moment, she opted for a gentler version of the truth.

"Scout... Jazz and I went after her to the bridge over the bay; the one where the exiled go. We tried to help her escape, and she..." Savvy swallowed, "she got hurt. Crane had his Goons take her. We don't really know why. She's with him now."

Scout's eyes widened in fear.

"She's with _Scarecrow_? Savvy, he'll kill her!"

To her surprise, it was Gambit who answered.

"This is Maestro we're talking about, Scout. She's strong enough to give Bane a run for his money; she'll get away from a measly little psychiatrist. Besides, if he wanted her dead, he could have just left her. Everything will be fine. You'll see."

Scout sniffed and turned her gaze on Savvy again, her gaze determined.

"How badly was she hurt?"

The lieutenant looked to Gambit, weighing the odds of what Scout's reaction would be if she answered.

"Tell her, Savvy. She's strong enough to handle it." Gambit murmured, placing a firm, anchoring hand on the smaller girl's shoulder. She looked curious as well.

Savvy nodded and turned back to Scout.

"One of the Goons shot her in the same shoulder as you and she fell into the bay. She was climbing a rope we were using to rescue her at the time. Once we saw Crane send his Goons in after her, we had to leave before he sent some after us. We... we think she's alive, but if she doesn't get help..." Savvy had to stop herself before she finished the thought. If she spoke it aloud, it became an actual possibility, one the lieutenant was unwilling to entertain.

Scout nodded and wiped her eyes, jaw set in a grim line, and opened her mouth to respond when they were interrupted by a commotion from outside.

"No, let me in! We've got a right to talk to her!"

Savvy stood up and whirled to see Rook and a few of the older boys standing at the door, being held at bay by a handful of Stitches' former assistants. They did _not_ look happy.

"Savvy!" Rook yelled, spotting her, "We need to talk."

The lieutenant frowned but nodded at Gambit to stay with Scout, and exited the room, squeezing past the rebels who were trying to keep Rook and his friends out.

"Yes?" Savvy asked calmly, her hands on her hips.

"It's been hours since Maestro was taken. How do you plan on reacting?" Rook demanded as his friends, of which there were four, formed a rather aggressive-looking semicircle in front of her.

Savvy lifted her chin, her voice still calm.

"Violently. That's all you need to know."

"I don't think you understand, _Savvy_," Rook hissed, his tone laced with venom, "Maestro is dead by now. They wouldn't wait long to execute her. That means we need a new leader."

The lieutenant scowled, hackles raising at his flippant dismissal of her best friend's supposed death.

"You don't know the circumstances, _Rook_. I happen to know that she's _not_ dead, and even if she was, I was instructed to enact Contingency Plan Duet if something happened to her. That means _I_ take charge as The Maestro. You answer to me, and The Young will back me up out of loyalty, a character trait _you_ seem to lack." Savvy said, maintaining her composure all the while.

Rook sneered.

"How could you possibly know she's not dead?"

"That's my business. When Jazz gets back, then we'll discuss the plan from there. For now, go off and sulk in a corner with your pals and let me do my job." Savvy replied immediately, "And keep your attempts to gain control of The Young away from the medical ward. There are people who actually contribute to our cause in there recuperating."

A look of rage cross his face and he advanced towards her threateningly.

"Why you little-"

"Hey!" Jazz's cry came from the front of the warehouse, where he was flanked by five adults, Gordon and Blake among them. He strode forward and shoved the arrogant boy backwards as rebels all over the room began to scatter instinctively, a month's worth of Maestro telling them adults were either the enemy or the problem and should be avoided at any cost coming to the forefront of their minds.

"Well done, Jazz, bringing them here. Maestro's gonna kill you." Savvy hissed at him as she darted to the planning table, climbing on top of it and releasing an ear-splitting whistle that gained everyone's attention immediately. The dispersing rebels froze, turning to her.

"Calm down," she addressed them, hands outstretched in a gesture of peace, "They're on our side. They're here to help."

"We can't trust them, they're cops! _That_ was your brilliant plan? The leadership skills of Savvy, everyone!" Rook called, never one to miss an opportunity.

"Maestro trusted them." The lie slipped from her tongue without hesitation, and it had the desired effect. They stopped scrambling to murmur and trade suspicious glances. If Maestro, the girl who trusted no one, trusted these men, then they must be somewhat safe.

"She was working with them," Savvy continued, "and we're... allies now, I guess. If you have problems with that, take it up with me. In the meantime, stay here while we get this figured out." With that, she stepped off the table and strode to the group of men and Jazz, who looked ready to slug Rook.

"Beat it." she bit at him, and the eighteen-year-old tossed her a glare that clearly read _This isn't over_ before nodding to his friends and walking away.

Jazz looked at her. She looked at Jazz. They both turned to look at Gordon, who was observing the mass of rebels around him with an impressed expression on his face.

"You told me they were organized, Detective," he murmured to Blake, "but I didn't expect this. All kids."

"They've come to take care of our resident fire hazard." Jazz muttered lowly, his eyes tracking the traitor in question as she trailed behind Rook and was surreptitiously looking back at the cops at the same time.

Savvy frowned.

"We could have done that."

"We also want to help keep you organized. With Maestro gone, there will be a lot of kids jockeying for her position, regardless of who she left in charge, as you just saw." Blake cut in, nodding towards Rook, "We can help, with the planning if nothing else."

Savvy looked to Jazz and sighed, knowing arguing would only waste valuable time they didn't have.

_If being a leader means making decisions like this one, then Maestro has it harder than I thought. _

The desire to not trust the police now that they were there, in the base, was so strong she could taste it. There was just something... incredibly not right, about seeing adults in this place, and she knew Maestro would have been twitching with discomfort by now. It had been bad enough when Blake had come on his own.

"Fine. You have somewhere to keep her?" she asked, shoving her wary thoughts away and looking to the former commissioner, who nodded.

Savvy took a bracing inhale, praying she wasn't making the wrong decision here and giving the cops more authority than they needed to hold.

_Best get it over with, then. _

"Matchstick!" she called sweetly, causing the girl in question to look up questioningly, a flicker of what could only be suspicion in her eyes, "Come here a moment, would you? They wanna talk about what you saw with Maestro."

The arsonist frowned a moment, then nodded and came over.

"I didn't know cops were still doing their jobs, investigating like this." she said, in a vain attempt to ease the obviously tense situation.

The men in question surrounded her.

"Where's Maestro, Matchstick?" Gordon asked calmly, with all the patience of a man who'd conducted hundreds of interrogations in his lifetime.

She looked uncertainly from the lieutenants to the commissioner and back again.

"W-what do you mean? Bane's taken her to the courthouse."

"We know you're the mole, Matchstick. You may as well drop the act." Savvy responded, her hands on her hips.

"What are you talking about? What act?" Matchstick demanded, though Savvy could see the flicker of fear in her eyes.

"Matchstick," Jazz bit out through clenched teeth, "Maestro survived. You _failed_."

It was as though someone had flipped a switch. The arsonist's face contorted in something very close to terror and she spun on her heel to run, but stopped when she found herself blocked in.

"That's impossible! Bane took her! She was sentenced!" Matchstick shrieked, fury and fear warring for dominance across her face as she spun, looking for a weak point in the circle surrounding her.

Savvy sprang forward and fisted her hands in the collar of the older girl's shirt, uncharacteristic anger dancing in her brown eyes.

"Yes, and she chose exile. Do you honestly think she wouldn't be able to survive something like that? Now Crane has her. Where did he take her?"

Matchstick shoved her off roughly and tried to break through the line of cops, only to be detained instantly. She was forced, shrieking, to her knees, her arms twisted behind her back and placed in a pair of handcuffs.

"Get off me! Get off! Someone help me! You can't let them treat me like this! They're adults, cops! They have no power here!" she cried to the growing crowd around them, who looked warily at the lieutenants, as though wondering why the cops were being allowed to manhandle one of their own.

"You want to know how Bane found Maestro and Stitches in that alley? Matchstick sold her out, and they killed our best medic in cold blood. Anybody feel like helping her?" Savvy spoke to the crowd without tearing her eyes away from the arsonist's.

Murmurs of outrage tore through the room, and the policemen looked on warily, as though wondering if they'd have to break up a riot. Stitches' assistants looked nothing short of murderous, as did several of the others who'd known the medic. It seemed her innocence was something everyone agreed on.

"Where is Crane taking Maestro?" Jazz demanded of the traitor, who was looking at the pair of them with so much hatred it completely distorted her deceptively pretty face.

"I don't know. I wasn't that far into the loop, but even if I did have a clue I wouldn't tell you. Let her die. We're all going to soon anyway. And then Gotham will be purged." the girl said, a crazed smile on her lips.

Savvy had to clench her fists to keep from striking the traitor, even if she did believe her about not knowing where Maestro was being held. Matchstick was a bootlicker, a gopher; someone like her wouldn't have known much of importance.

She turned her gaze to Gordon, praying she wasn't making the wrong decision in trusting him with this. Praying he wouldn't take it as a sign of control, of authority.

"Take her."

He studied her a moment, then nodded to his men, who began to escort her away. The arsonist cursed and thrashed and struggled against her captors.

"You just wait, Savvy! They'll come for her lieutenants now! You'll be the next to die! The Young will fall, you'll see!"

Savvy gazed at her coldly, ignoring the threats. All Matchstick was doing was stating possibilities, possibilities that were common knowledge, not facts.

"When Maestro gets back, I'll be sure to send her your way, shall I?" she responded coolly.

Terror filled Matchstick's eyes just before a black bag was placed over her head and she was removed from the warehouse, and Savvy was disgusted by her cowardice.

"We'll keep her with us for now," Gordon said as Blake looked on, the pair being two of the three cops left, "but I would suggest you take action. There's no telling how much Matchstick gave away."

Gordon's eyes conveyed his message perfectly; he'd meant what he said earlier about helping, and only helping. He had no intentions of taking charge, and Savvy felt a weight lift from her shoulders knowing she'd been right to trust him.

Savvy nodded once, showing her gratefulness, and turned to Jazz, who held one of Maestro's masks out to her. She stared at it a moment, knowing what the acceptance would mean. It would mean making more decisions, riskier decisions; it would mean facing down Rook and others who opposed Maestro's choice for her to lead; it meant she would _have_ to lead. But as she looked to Jazz, she knew then she wouldn't be alone in those decisions, just as her leader had never been. Jazz would be the backbone she had been for Maestro, and with his help, she'd keep The Young from falling until her leader could return and pick up the pieces.

Wordlessly, she accepted the mask.

The lieutenant bore not even a passing resemblance to her leader, being black with dark hair and the Maestro being a blonde and caucasian, but the symbolism was there.

For now, for the moment, until The Young's leader returned, she was in charge.

"Pack your things. We're moving bases." she called to the crowd, eyes flashing in a silent dare for anyone to challenge her.

This time, no one, not even Rook, found the courage to question her orders.

**~DKR~**

Darkness.

Darkness and cold.

There was nothing else.

I floated dimly on the echo of unconsciousness, vague, nonsensical sounds occasionally piercing my coma-like stupor. I wasn't aware of anything other than the sheer nothingness that surrounded me.

_Mother in heaven, please don't let me be dead._

Gradually, I became aware of more, the vague noises slipping into footsteps and the nonsensical sounds turning into voices.

(_Male, adults, only one or two recognizable._)

Still, in the dim part of my consciousness that was still firing, I could not make sense of the words they spoke.

Which, to be honest, kind of sucked.

Eventually, as my brain awoke enough to put a coherent string of words together, I began to wonder where I was, and, more importantly, whether I was even still alive.

The pain that pulsed through my right shoulder with every beat of my heart was telling me that yes, I was alive, thank you very much, and I had better do something about my injury fast before it started driving me insane.

My brain was racing towards full-on consciousness now (_goody!_) and, nearby, something was beeping in time with my pulse.

_A heart-rate monitor. Am I in a hospital?_

I quickly dismissed the thought as I remembered the circumstances that put me in this position and seriously doubting Bane was going to go to all that trouble.

Behind the beeping, all was still. No footsteps, no voices, just the whirring of the heating unit and the occasional creak as the (_Building? House? Apartment? Cell?_) establishment around me settled. I was resting on something soft in a firm sort of way, and my head wasn't elevated, which meant I was probably laying on something similar to a gurney.

_Why is it so freaking _cold_?_

I was shivering now, almost violently, and my head was killing me.

_Oh yeah, I fell into the bay. That would explain it. _

Slowly, cautiously, I opened my eyes.

Everything was blurry at first, and I blinked a few times to clear my vision. I felt extremely lightheaded and confused, and my body ached, so the only movement I managed was to turn my head to the right.

My earlier suspicions were confirmed when I saw that I _was_ laying on a gurney. I was in a small room, surrounded by tables of medical equipment and vials of fluorescent chemicals, and a door hung open on the far wall. My gurney seemed to be surrounded by small space heaters, which weren't doing much to warm the fierce chill in the air, at least not to me. And yes, there was the heart-rate monitor, beeping steadily and hooked to my... _chest?_

_Hold on a second. _

I froze.

_**Why** can I see my chest? _

A double-take revealed that I was in only my white cotton sports bra and underwear, a blanket and heating pad draped carelessly over my (admittedly bony; I could see my ribs) frame. They weren't damp; which meant I'd probably been here a while.

_This is bad. _

Beside me, I heard the heart rate monitor escalate with my steadily-increasing pulse. Fear wracked my body as a coughing fit took hold of me from out of nowhere and forced me to sit up too quickly; I was shivering more violently than before.

_Where am I? What's wrong with me?_

I felt like I was falling apart at the seams; I gasped in pain as my right arm spasmed from my shoulder injury.

So loud was my coughing and so intense was the pain in my head that I didn't hear the footsteps approaching from a corridor nearby, or even notice anyone was in the room with until a warm hand touched my bare shoulder blade and I only barely managed to stifle a shriek. If I'd been in totally control of myself, I would have swung a reflexive punch.

"Easy, easy," a chillingly familiar voice soothed with a doctor's patience, gently pressing a glass of water to my lips. I didn't have the strength to argue; still coughing, I clutched the blanket to my chest and gulped the water thirstily, laying back weakly once my fit subsided some.

Jonathan Crane was looming above me, adjusting his glasses calmly as though this situation was completely normal for him. It probably was, the sicko.

"You have a moderate case of hypothermia, which explains the confusion, cough, headache, and blue pigmentation you're experiencing." he began, turning away to adjust the temperature on one of the heaters.

_Blue... blue pigmentation? _

I examined my hands, now cleaned of blood, (physically, at least) and saw that he was right.

_Oh. _

"The bullet in your shoulder went clean through, but it will be fairly sore for several weeks. I would suggest limited use of that arm." the man that plagued my nightmares continued as I shivered some more, less from the cold this time and more from fear. I was totally vulnerable; I was barely clothed and not nearly strong enough to fight, and the thought petrified me. Something told me he enjoyed the turmoil and panic that was probably displayed across my face.

Questions were swimming through my head, phrased with varying degrees of sarcasm, but I decided it was best not to tick him off right away and chose a safe topic.

"I thought you were a … _cough cough_ … a psychologist." I rasped, examining my shoulder and finding it was bandaged immaculately.

He shot me a look.

"Psychopharmacology was my primary field. However, you don't go into this business without learning a few tricks of the trade."

"Regardless, I've never trusted doctors … _cough_ … you in particular, so there had better be a pretty freaking good … _cough_ … explanation as to why I'm not wearing … _cough cough_ … any clothes." I choked out, my head protesting with every syllable I uttered and each fit that wracked my body.

He rolled his eyes.

"I vaguely recall mentioning that you had hypothermia, mere moments ago. If I had left you in your clothes, you'd be dead."

I surveyed him a moment, then pressed my good arm over my eyes and focused on breathing.

"Good answer. Didn't know you cared, Doc. What am I doing here?"

"Recuperating."

"I'm not doing this with you. _Why?_" I opened my eyes at my statement, letting my arm fall away from my face to stare into his piercing gaze. I had a sudden, inexplicable rush of sympathy for bugs that have the misfortune to fall under microscopes. He'd never been this close to me before, and I took the moment to study his face.

There was murder etched onto his cheekbones and frozen mania in his eyes, those eyes that resembled ice on sunlight; he was beauty darkened by depravity, an angel molded by fear.

_They are the eyes of someone who has mastered fear and brought it to heel; the eyes of someone who is no longer human._

The very sight of him terrified me.

Gulping, I forced my eyes from his and lowered them, taking in his white button-up with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and dark slacks. I didn't know what to think of him in these clothes, clothes that seemed so normal, and I found myself half-wishing he'd put on his ratty coat, evocative of his darker persona though it was, just so I wouldn't be so confused.

"When was the last time you screamed?" he asked as his voice took on a darker tone, charcoal meeting ice as our gazes locked and he removed his glasses. It took me a moment to understand that this was his way of answering my question.

I swallowed, knowing where this conversation was going, but choosing to answer anyway.

"That... that night. The night you flooded the Narrows." I whispered, coughing for a moment and gasping at the pain in my chest. The heart-rate monitor was beeping frantically, and with a growl, he ripped the wire from where it was taped to my chest and let it fall. The machine gave a long, forlorn wail before switching off.

I was terrified. I knew what the darkening of his eyes meant, I knew what happened when his voice dropped. If I closed my eyes, – I didn't dare – I could easily match it with the garbled one that had haunted me eight years ago.

I feared this side of him, more than anything else in the world; more than losing to Bane, more than my Young dying, more than the Batman abandoning us, more than even Crane, I feared the Scarecrow.

"That's a pity," he murmured, leaning so close to me that his lips brushed my ear and I sucked in a terrified breath, "because you have such a _pretty_ scream. You don't mind if I make it happen again, do you?" he chuckled darkly, and I tensed, certain he was about to do something violent.

Then, just like that, he stiffened, straightening slowly before placing his glasses back on, looking mildly irritated.

_Huh?_

It registered somewhere in the back of my mind that he probably hadn't meant to let Scarecrow out just then; I wasn't sure what to make of that.

"You should really get that checked out." I muttered after a few seconds, my defense mechanism manifesting itself in its customary form of sarcasm.

The look he gave me was poisonous as he idly let a warning hand rest around my neck. I held his gaze defiantly, despite the trembling of my body.

"You don't like my other half?" he asked, something in his tone I didn't understand.

"Does it matter? You're both nuts." I barely had time to register that I was playing with fire before his hand tightened around my windpipe.

"Maybe so. You have your precious Batman to thank for that. Gassing a man with his own toxin is remarkably ill-advised." he said, his gaze lingering on the bat symbol printed on my left wrist.

I couldn't help but grin at the mention of my dark angel, and his image gave me courage.

"I don't know, Crane," I rasped, "crazy's a good look on you."

Adrenaline starting to pound through my veins and lending me hidden reservoirs of strength, I reached up with my good arm and scratched his face violently, leaving a series of deep gashes down his left cheekbone. He cursed and his grip slackened instantly; I used the distraction to grab his head and slam it down onto the metal bar rimming my gurney. The only reason it worked was because he had underestimated me in my weakened state; a part of me knew it would likely never happen again. He crumpled, and with a great amount of effort I pulled myself from the bed, landing in a heap on the ground.

_Ow. _

I groaned as my head hit the linoleum; I wouldn't be able to keep this up for long, but I had to try. I rolled to my feet, draping the blanket around my barely-clothed frame and stumbling down the corridor, Crane close behind.

I was quite certain that if I looked back, I would see his eyes darkening considerably.

I didn't dare.

My heart raced and my body screamed in agony as I rounded the corner into a much larger, mostly empty room, briefly taking note of the kitchenette, complete with a table and chairs. A small cot rested in the far corner, and at the other end was a staircase leading up a to a closed door; I bolted for it.

At least, I tried.

Something, or rather, _someone_, swept my legs from beneath me and I fell, landing on my injured arm and letting out a cry of pain as I did so. All of the air rushed from my lungs as my pursuer straddled me, but my arms wouldn't respond to my command to push him off. My head swam; I was seconds from passing out.

It was so _cold_.

The Scarecrow was back, and this time, he was riled.

"Johnny boy thinks you need time to _heal_ before we experiment on you," he grinned sickly, and blood dripped down from the open gash on his forehead from my gurney trick, "but after that little display, I think you're ready for the first test, don't you? You don't know how long I've waited for this. Ever since I first heard you scream, I've searched all over for one to match it. I've never even come close."

I opened my mouth to spit back something snarky, only to receive a lungful of toxin ejected from his sleeve.

_Hold your breath! _I could hear my mother call, just as she had eight years ago, _Hold your breath!_

It did no good. The hallucinations, just like _that night_, began immediately.

_Blood and fire and worms and tears and fear and **screams**... _

They echoed in my ears; I cried out and pressed my palms over them to block the noise but it did nothing. If anything, it grew louder.

"_**Scream for me!"**_, The Scarecrow above me roared, and an agonized, terrified cry tore from my lips, but it wasn't quite a scream, not yet.

The shrieks and moans were all around me, tearing at my hyper-vigilant eardrums, tearing at the walls I'd made around my memories. I was falling again, not into ice and water but onto blood-soaked cobblestone...

_It's so **cold**..._

And I was gone.

**~DKR~**

_Those that claim blood is thicker than water are right. The substance staining the knees of my jeans was unmistakable, heavy and warm and metallic in a way that water could never be. _

_I was kneeling in a pool of my mother's blood in that cursed alleyway, staring down at her still face. Her cold eyes were riveted to mine, accusing, blaming, _judging_ me and my cowardice for her death. _

_It was my fault._

_Panic had taken hold in my very bones; I could scarcely breathe under the weight of it. Screams echoed around me, but instead of the unfamiliar ones that I remembered from that night, this time they were personal, intimate, recognizable. _

_It was the wail of Scout when she heard her sister was dead, wondering why I didn't protect her, it was Jazz mourning Savvy's loss as he knelt over her broken body, neck snapped by the masked menace, it was Gordon in the last seconds before the bomb went off, howling in frustration because we had failed, it was Blake, with his painfully lovely eyes, accusing me of endangering my rebels as hoards of them were lead to be killed. _

_It's all my fault._

_I lent my voice to the sound, my scream real and raw as it pierced the air for the first time in eight years, shrieking as my soul was broken yet again. The cry burned along my throat as it had that night, ripping and tearing and damaging, and the face of my mother lying dead before me became those that I cared about most. _

_Savvy. _

_Jazz. _

_Scout. _

_Mom. _

_Savvy._

_Jazz. _

_Scout. _

_Mom. _

_The fear was tearing at my mind, splitting my soul, because it wasn't just fear anymore. It was pain, it was anguish, it was guilt and it was hatred, and it was manifesting itself through my shrieking._

_My fault._

_And then... _he_ was there; not my angel, not in this hell, but the one who'd made this happen, the one I feared most. His mask writhed with the worms I despised, and there was fire in his eyes. _

"_**Good girl.**" his voice was mocking and dark and obscenely gleeful, but I didn't have time to dwell on this as his lips suddenly and unexpectedly slanted over my own, devouring my screams. _

_He tasted like metal and ice and blood, and in my terror, I did not fight back. I could only scream and continue screaming, and for a brief, panicked moment I believed I would never be able to stop. _

_This is what hell was like, I was certain. _

"_**That's enough for now,**" his warped voice murmured as he tore his lips from mine long moments later, "**We'll need you strong for the next tests.**" _

_Please, enough... no more..._

_There was a momentary flash of pain in my neck, and the mist and the body and the blood slowly faded, and the panic subsided. _

_The last thing I knew was a deep, manic chuckle and warm breath on my neck, and the the world went dark again. _

**A/N: So I know I told you guys I'd stop apologizing for the waits, but I'm gonna go ahead and do it this time because of the cliffie I left you on last chapter. Sorry about that. Christmas and New Year's and school again, oh my! Bit of a dark chapter here, but don't worry, all questions will be answered in the next chapter. Possibly. Mwahahahaha... **

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Darkness Descends" by Laura Marling. Appropriate, no? Also, congratulations to **Wolfshadows32** for winning the song contest last chapter and receiving her OC, Gambit, as well as designing my freakin' awesome new cover! You rock!**

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! **

**Wow you guys... this story is officially up to 90 reviews, with a total of a record 26 reviews for the last chapter. You guys... you guys are incredible. Seriously. A special thanks to (deep breath): **XxLostInTheMusicxX**,** Miss Singing in the Rain, DesdemonaEmo13, SilverBulletAngel, AlainHotCoco1, Misplaced Levity, Eva Sirico, ShawneeSavage, Luna357, takara410, MockingjayWolf, ElfinCleona, Wolfshadows32, Deathstroke Terminator, Kagome Narome, skittles-and-neoncolors, SilentFlier, Athena11231, WithNoFear, a random bat, BreeBree12345, omnomchocolate, crisis what crisis, Crow 7, keeleymcgregor213, **and** GezeichneteSeelen **for all of your lovely and encouraging reviews, as well as all those who favorited or alerted me or my story! **

**Next chappie soon; more REVIEWS = faster updates! Try it and see!**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	10. The Entertainment

**For Your Entertainment**

_So here you are, two steps ahead and staying on guard,  
__Every lesson forms a new scar,  
__They never thought you'd make it this far,  
__But turn around, oh they've surrounded you,  
__It's a showdown, and nobody comes to save you now,  
__But you've got something they don't,  
__Yeah you've got something they don't,  
__You've just gotta keep your eyes open._

_Keep your feet ready,  
__Heartbeat steady,  
__Keep your eyes open,  
__Keep your aim locked,  
__The night goes dark,  
__Keep your eyes open._

_Chapter IX_

_The Entertainment_

I was remembering again. I didn't like remembering, but it was better than dreaming and my torn and broken mind would not grant me solace. I don't know how long I remained suspended in a limbo of sorts, floating on nothingness, recalling circumstances and situations I hadn't thought of in what seemed like ages, some of them good, some of them bad, all unwelcome. I didn't want another memory to be twisted and warped into a weapon that would inevitably be used against me. But I could not stop the continuous ebb and flow of my remembrance, pushing and pulling until I fell down, down, down, into yet another recollection I had no desire to relive.

_The microwave beeped shrilly in the rundown kitchenette of the equally rundown motel room that Jazz, Savvy and I had taken up residence in, and I reluctantly moved from my position on the bed where the three of us were watching a crummy soap opera to quiet it. It wasn't a meeting night, so the fifteen or twenty kids that made up my Young were out doing heaven knows what, and my lieutenants and I had nothing better to do at the moment besides lay around and wait for... I don't know. Something. Anything. _Commissioner_ Gordon (I inwardly sneered at the title) and his group of merry men had almost eliminated the crime wave that had once gripped the city, leaving my Young and I with very little to do on nights like tonight. In cleaning up the city, he had eliminated our purpose. My purpose. _

_I never told anyone how much the thought terrified me. _

_A certain wealthy lawyer I_knew_ was corrupt had, strangely enough, conveniently misplaced his wallet on his way home that day and the money had gone to place a moldy roof over our head and to provide small foodstuffs to keep us comfortable for a night or two. It was too cold to sleep rough tonight anyway, and I didn't feel right about going back to my apartment alone; something was telling me to stick close to my lieutenants. _

_I grimaced as I opened the microwave door, feeling the heat wave wash over my temporarily unmasked face, and peered at the small bowl of EasyMac contained therein. _

_**Oh, my glamourous, glamourous life.** _

_I hated EasyMac. It reminded me too much of my mom, who used to make it for me twice a week when money was tight, and I'd eaten it so much that it was simply unappealing to me now. However, since you could buy like forty bowls of it for a nickel and we wanted to make our money last, Savvy had grabbed several containers of the stuff._

_With a grudging sigh, I pulled out the small plastic bowl and dug around for a disposable fork in the bag of groceries Savvy had purchased earlier, not knowing whether to feel glad or annoyed with her efficiency when I emerged successful. If she'd forgotten the utensils, at least I could have used that as an excuse to avoid consuming the nostalgic noodles. She berated me about eating enough as it was, however, and I would do almost anything to avoid one of _those_ rants at the moment. _

_I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of something vibrating, and I looked over to see Savvy wrestling with Jazz to get him to turn down the TV as she reached for her flashing phone. She was the only one of us who cared enough to have one, but she really only used it to get in touch with other members of The Young. _

"_Speak and be heard," she answered, still wrestling with Jazz for the remote, who held it just out of reach and was rapidly turning up the volume. _

"_Knock it off, Jazz." I called as I came back into the room, and he complied immediately, recalling my sensitive hearing. _

_There was a pause as Savvy listened to whatever the speaker on the other line was saying, her brow furrowed in confusion. _

"_Whoa whoa whoa, Etch, slow down, I can't-" another pause, and then her face changed so drastically it would have been comical if the new expression wasn't so grave, "What do you mean? How do you-?" There was another pause and a hum of agreement, and she finally moved the phone away from her ear and put it on speaker._

"_Etch, tell Maestro what you just told me." she commanded in a no-nonsense tone of voice she rarely used._

"_A bunch of guys just robbed the stock exchange. I was nearby when it happened. Cops everywhere." said a breathless male voice, one I recognized as one of our hitters for The Young. _

"_So?" I asked, interested and wanting to be involved in the first piece of major crime activity in months, but confused as to why Savvy was suddenly so concerned. _

"_I caught a glimpse of the leader's face on one of the computers the cops had. He was wearing some sort of mask." _

_**A horse rears and whinnies, flames dancing out of it's nostrils as the rider laughs madly...**_

"_What kind of mask?" I demanded immediately, reaching for my own instinctively and putting it on, fearing he was talking about the nightmare who had destroyed me, "Did it look tattered? Like a burlap sack?" _

"_No. It was metal and only covered his mouth and nose, and it kinda wrapped around his face... it's hard to explain." _

_From what he _did_ explain, I knew it wasn't the man who had cost me everything and nearly sighed with relief. _

"_So what's happening now?" _

"_They took hostages on motorcycles. It's an all-out police chase on the news right now, and... Hey, what's that?" Etch said, obviously seeing something on the TV. _

"_Etch?" I called into the phone, trying to regain his attention. _

"_Somebody just joined the chase. He's got a motorcycle too and he's going after the guys on the bikes. It's kinda funny, but he looks a little like..."_

_There was a pause as his voice trailed off._

"_No. Freakin'. Way." Etch said after a moment, before there was a series of muffled noises and sudden, explosive, excited swearing; it sounded like he had dropped the phone. _

"_Etch? Etch, what's happening?" I demanded. _

"_Turn to any local news station! Hurry!" he called once he'd retrieved the phone, but Jazz was already keying in the numbers. The screen went dark a moment as it switched channels, but then lit up in a bright spectrum of flashing blue and red as the news station came to life. _

_It took me a moment to understand what I was seeing, but when it finally registered, the bowl of macaroni I was still holding slipped from my fingers and landed with a splat against the floor._

_A news helicopter had a camera aimed at one of the main highways in the middle of downtown Gotham, where every cop car in the city could be seen pursuing a lone black figure on a massive bike. _

_A figure who wore a black mask that had sharp points, almost like ears, on either side of his head. _

_A figure whose cape billowed behind him as he raced along the city streets, fleeing from men who were too asinine to realize they were pursuing the wrong person. _

_It was my dark angel. _

_It was the Batman. _

_He'd come back. _

_With a loud whoop that was so uncharacteristic of me I startled even myself, I leaped into the air, pumping my fists and cackling like a madwoman. _

"_Yes!" I shrieked, "Yes yes yes! He's back! I knew it!"_

"_C'mon man, you can shake 'em!" Jazz urged my dark angel after a moment of disbelief, sounding for all the world as though he was watching football and not a police chase. Savvy, who was dancing around the room with glee, leaped onto the bed, standing on the mattress with no thought to her muddy sneakers. _

"_Oh, don't worry about the robbers with hostages, you blockheads, just go after the only guy who can help you. Smart move, idiots." she said, flopping onto her stomach and clutching a pillow like a lifeline. _

_I grinned like a two-year-old at her atypical sarcasm and turned back to the screen, not wanting to miss a moment of this. _

_They had the Batman surrounded now, pointing guns at my angel from almost every direction as he stood in the middle of the freeway, holding what looked like a tablet in his hands that he had retrieved from a goon on a bike, who was now currently sprawled unconscious on the concrete in front of him. I giggled like a child as he looked at them all with an almost bored expression before hopping back on his bike with a dramatic flourish of his cape, firing a shot at a truck that was carrying wrecked cars and making the ramp fall. He then simply drove right past the line of cops, who dove to get out of his way, ascended the ramp he'd created, and landed smoothly on the overpass above them. _

_**That's my angel. **_

_He was making the cops look like the fools they were, and I loved every minute of it. However, despite my jubilation, something was nagging at me, and my mind started to whirl as I began tapping out a rhythm on the legs of my jeans. _

_The Batman had been a ghost for eight years; no one had seen hide or hair of him since the night Harvey Dent died. For the first few years after he disappeared, crime had still been fairly bad. Of course, it was nothing compared to the Joker's insanity, but it still should have warranted my dark angel's attention. Those instances he ignored, and, gradually, Gordon and his precious flock of imbeciles were somehow able to muck out the organized crime. The Batman's job was seemingly finished; this robbery shouldn't have been anything special. _

_So what changed? Why, after eight years of silence, did he pick _now_ to return? I couldn't shake the feeling it had something to do with the masked man. It might be commonplace in other cities for a robber to wear a mask, but in Gotham, that was seen as something else entirely. Gotham was a city of masks; nobody ever made a dent here (no pun intended) while showing their face. To commit a crime under a mask in Gotham was taken as a challenge. It meant you were placing yourself _above_ the commonplace, the normal; it meant you would be remembered, and it meant that you planned to make an impact. _

_I watched in silence as my dark angel flew away in an aircraft I had never seen before, leaving the cops in the dust and my lieutenants jubilant, full of hope for a future that would once again feature the Batman. _

_But that was the last time we ever saw him. _

**~DKR~**

I awoke.

_Ugh. This is already getting old._

I was shivering and my shoulder was screaming in pain, but this time I was instantly aware of my surroundings. There was no "slowly ascending into the world of the living with the sunlight playing on my eyelids" nonsense; I was simply asleep one moment, and fully awake the next.

At the moment, I was back on the gurney and Crane was nowhere in sight, which could be construed as either a good thing or a bad thing. I closed my eyes, taking a moment to shove everything his toxin had made me see, had made me _feel_, down deep into a box in the darkest corner of my mind, only to be opened when it happened again. I didn't remember a lot of what had occurred in the moments before he gassed me, only that he was saying something about... my scream?

_Ugh, why does everything _hurt_?_

Testing my strength, I tried to sit up and take inventory of my bodily damage. My shoulder protested, of course, but that was going to happen regardless so I figured I might as well ignore it and move on. The thing that was currently demanding my attention was my throat, which burned unlike anything I'd ever felt, even eight years ago. The sensation felt as though someone had taken their fingernails and dragged them down my windpipe, and I instantly knew I'd be lucky if I was able to speak today.

_Stupendous. _

My last line of defense was gone, and the terrifying thought propelled me into frantically trying to get out of the gurney. I would have been successful too, if my arm wasn't handcuffed to the railing.

It took me a moment to process, but when my situation finally registered I bit out a nasty curse as I jerked, with no success, on the metal bracelets that kept me secured to the bed.

_Frikkin' _stupendous.

It was very cold, and my head was beginning to pound.

"I'd apologize for the handcuffs, _Maestro_, but I'm afraid I can't have you pulling anymore stunts and injuring yourself again." Crane's smooth voice from behind me emphasized my name in a mocking sort of way, and I bristled before turning to look at him.

He was leaning against the doorframe casually, watching me with a blank expression on his face that was not dissimilar to a vulture studying it's prey to see whether or not it was alive. A different set of clothes than before covered his lanky frame, which meant I'd been out for at least a day, but the look in his eyes was familiar. Calculating, distant, superior: _that_ was unmistakably Jonathan Crane and not his demented counterpart.

I scowled. The sight of him still terrified me, but now the fear was mixed with anger. Raw, pulsing, _deadly_ anger. Gassing me was possibly one of the poorest decisions he could have made.

"Injuring _myself_? I seem to recall injuring _you_." I rasped, almost inaudibly and ignoring how my throat burned in protest. I noted the long series of gashes on one side of his face, healed sightly but still definitely visible.

The look in his eyes didn't change as he stalked towards me.

"That was... _unfortunate_. I didn't take your complete disregard for your own well-being into account, a mistake I won't be repeating."

"What are you talking about?" I snarled hoarsely, fists clenching as I fleetingly debated how suicidal it would be if I tried to strike him again. He was close now, and if I aimed right I could possibly knock him out.

_Yes, but then you'd still be stuck here, chained to a gurney and waiting for him to wake up and gas you again. Good plan._

There was no change in his expression.

"You had a fairly serious case of hypothermia and a bullet had just torn a hole in your shoulder not two hours before. I didn't think you would have the strength, nor the ability to cope with that much pain and still function."

I couldn't keep from smirking.

"You thought I was weak."

"Did I not make it clear enough the first time?"

"I got news for ya, Doc, anybody who's made that assumption pretty much ever has wound up regretting it." I was speaking through the pain now, knowing my words would be far more impressive if I didn't sound as though I'd recently developed a taste for drinking battery acid.

"Again, it was a mistake I will not be repeating. Hence the handcuffs."

"Scared I'll bite?" I asked, unable to resist the urge to snap my teeth at him, feeling strangely empowered despite my sick, bruised condition.

The look he gave me was so disdainful it could curdle milk.

"Do you know how long you've been unconscious?"

I shrugged, then winced at the sudden burst of pain in my shoulder.

_Aren't we just a hot mess this morning?_

"A day?"

"Two, actually."

_That_ gave me pause. Two days already. The Young would be worried sick. I just hoped Savvy and Jazz had figured out Matchstick's game, and that someone was taking care of Scout. Still, I shook it off as though the news didn't bother me.

"So?"

"So, you've set me back. The more you injure yourself, the less progress I make on my toxin." The way he spoke about me, so calmly, so matter-of-factly, as though the fact that I was a human and not a lab rat was lost on him, gave me chills.

"You weren't planning on gassing me yet. Why did you?" I knew the answer, of course, and it hung between us almost tangibly.

_You lost control. The Scarecrow broke free and you couldn't stop him. _I wondered if the thought scared him at all. I wondered if _anything_ scared him. A part of me doubted it, but then again, nothing human was without fear.

_Though, that isn't actually a valid argument in this case._

He pressed his lips in a thin line.

"Scarecrow has been... _enthusiastic_, since you arrived. When you ignored the pain you were in to try and run, he took it to mean you were physically able to handle the toxin. If you don't try anything stupid again, something of which I very much doubt you're capable, you'll be able to heal fully before the next tests. I need a healthy patient for my experiments."

A blinding, furious rage stole over my body.

"So you basically just plan on keeping me here for your _entertainment?_" I snarled, the rasp in my voice making me sound somewhat animalistic.

He looked somewhat amused.

"Isn't that part of your scheme? Your name _is_ Maestro, after all."

"No it isn't." I snapped back without thinking, wincing instantly when I realized the can of worms I'd inadvertently opened.

_Crap._

He arched a superior eyebrow.

"Oh?"

I sneered at him.

"Right, because I went to all that trouble to change my name just so I could tell _you_. You were the reason I changed it in the first place."

_Why are you still talking, you idiot!? Shut up already! _

"Well _that's_ certainly telling," the smugness in his voice was infuriating, "Care to elaborate? I am a psychologist, after all."

"Yeah, and you were so good at your job they locked you up with the rest of the crazies." I spat back venomously, knowing I'd touched a nerve when I saw his icy eyes begin to burn.

"You enjoy playing with fire, don't you?"

I scoffed, then grimaced slightly as the noise pulled on my vocal chords.

"Noticed that, huh? Looks like that PhD was good for something after all, Doc."

His eyes darkened at the blow to his intelligence; I was beginning to notice that was a weak point for him. Growling low in his throat, he appeared to be physically fighting himself for a moment, before pacing away and running his hand through his hair in an obvious effort to calm down.

I watched him carefully, free hand clenched into a fist and prepared to fight him off if he lost control again, even if that was what I'd been aiming for. If I got him to wrestle with himself, that was less time he was spending wrestling with _me_. Since he seemed to be worried about keeping the Scarecrow caged for now, I had the advantage.

Besides, provoking people has always been a talent of mine.

Unfortunately, he seemed to know what I was trying to do, but then I had never actually taken him for stupid. Sadistic, unbalanced, deranged maybe, but _never_ stupid.

"I keep underestimating you," he began almost conversationally, his back to me as his shoulders heaved with the effort he was exerting to keep control, "but I would suggest you stop trying to drag out my darker half. Believe me, if you do provoke him into taking control, the results will _not_ be pretty."

The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and while I didn't completely abandon the plan, I decided it was time for a change of subject. I waited until he calmed come, studying his movement and ready to defend myself at the first sign of a slip in control.

"Why me?" I rasped, so quietly I didn't think he heard me at first.

He straightened however, and when he turned to face me his eyes were guarded, but not dark.

"Pardon?"

"Why did you fish me out of the bay? Why go to all this trouble," I gestured between us, "just because you remember me from one night eight years ago?" I knew the answer, I knew he had told me and it was _right there_, lingering around the back of my brain, but I couldn't recall it.

He didn't answer right away, instead he studied me, and I did not tear my gaze from his as the gears turned in his warped mind. After a moment, he withdrew a small silver key from his shirt pocket and smirked when he saw me flinch at his sudden movement.

_Get ahold of yourself, Maestro. _

"I'm going to assume you can guess what this unlocks?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, mainly just because I can't think of anything sarcastic enough. Give me a moment though; I'm sure I'll come up with something."

He continued as though I hadn't spoken.

"I propose a compromise. You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours."

"I reserve the right to pass." I replied immediately, jumping at the chance to understand why I was there but not stupid enough to blindly agree to anything Crane said.

He nodded slowly, before a lazy, dark sort of smile that I didn't like touched his lips.

"Fine. But the more you let me in, the more you tell me about yourself, the more answers you'll get."

I lifted my chin defiantly, keeping my gaze level even though I didn't like the look on his face.

_Nice try. But there are some things I wouldn't tell you even if it meant you knew how to destroy Bane. _

"Deal." I said finally, watching as he walked over and slid the key into the lock on the cuffs.

"If you promise to behave," he said, his voice both cautionary and amused, "there's a shower down the hall you can use."

I rubbed my wrist with my good arm as the shackle snapped open, my guard up. I didn't want to trust him, I didn't want to take anything he could offer me, but the idea of a hot shower after my dip in the icy bay nearly made me tremble with excitement.

_Plus, if he cared about seeing you naked, he could have done it already. _

This in mind and deciding I needed to be more careful about the battles I picked, I nodded and watched as he stepped back, making no move to help me as I struggled out of the gurney and placed my feet on the cold concrete floor. My legs felt ready to give out any minute, and I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything. Judging by the needle marks on my arm, Crane had probably had me on some sort of IV for fluids, but he hadn't brought up the subject of food and I certainly wasn't about to, either.

I grimaced, a flash of pain rocketing through my wounded shoulder as I wrapped the blanket around my form and took shaky steps forward. Crane's eyes never left me, and I tried not to shiver under the intensity of his gaze.

"You just gonna stand there watching me? Don't you have people to be sentencing? A chemistry set to be playing with? The dreams of small children to be haunting, maybe?"

He gave me an odd little half-smirk, one I didn't understand.

"You take precedence, at the moment."

"I'm flattered." I rasped back, cautiously making it out of the room and down a corridor behind the kitchenette from earlier, a corridor I hadn't noticed during my ill-fated escape attempt. I barely glanced at the room as I passed, unwilling to remember just yet.

There wasn't anything down this hall but a small, fairly nondescript bathroom, complete with the usual generic soap brands, a razor, deodorant, and a few other necessary toiletries.

_Dear diary, today a psychopath with a duel personality who wears a sack on his head in his spare time and condemns people to death by exile in a Kangaroo Court set up by a murdering terrorist gave me a new hairbrush. _

However, what really caught my eye was the stack of my now-freshly laundered clothes resting on the counter, complete with new underthings that looked eerily like they would fit.

I chose to ignore the bile rising in my throat, instead shutting the door behind me, – which didn't lock, no surprises there – and beginning to strip down. I avoided my reflection in the mirror above the sink at all costs, not wanting to know how weak I'd looked these past few days as I'd faced my enemy.

_That reminds me..._

I glanced at the bandage that covered my wounded shoulder, before sighing and painstakingly beginning to unwrap it, wincing at every movement of the appendage and every pull of the skin.

_Mental note: injuries like this one should be avoided in the future. _

When I finally got the gauze away from my person, I grimaced at the sight that met my eyes. The tissue wasn't torn too badly; the bullet had obviously entered and left cleanly by some miraculous twist of fate (Scout hadn't been so lucky; she'd be wearing a sling for months), but the area around the wound itself was nearly black with bruising, and even the slightest movement of my shoulder sent shockwaves of agony to every extremity.

I grimaced again.

_Lovely. _

A sudden thought occurred to me, and I craned my neck to get a look at the shoulder blade of my recent injury, the place where the bullet exited my body. The tattoo located there remained, for the most part, untouched, and I couldn't keep the pleased half-smile from my face at the sight.

_You alone can make my song take flight,_

_help me make the music of the night. _

The spidery black script were lyrics from the musical _The Phantom of the Opera_, specifically, the very last line in the Phantom's song, "Music of the Night". It was by far the most haunting and beautiful song in the entire production, and those last few lines... I could relate to them, and not just because I was a masked recluse that spent her time composing music inspired by an angel for days on end, either. The entire song was about the power of music and how it had the ability to completely possess a person, to empower them to go above and beyond what they would normally dream of doing. It called to the part of my spirit that longed for my angel, to the part of me whose desires and hopes were rejected and ridiculed by a society that could never hope to understand them, and wouldn't even condescend long enough to try. The very last lines called for others to join in on the music's captivation; it called for allies to show the power to others, something I sought in my rebels.

I caught myself wondering if Crane had noticed it, which he undoubtedly had, and, if he did, what he thought about it.

_It's probably all related to some deep Freudian impact on my psyche, or something. _

The bathroom was freezing, and I kept my injured arm close to my bare form as I turned to survey the shower. It was fairly basic; medium-sized with a frosted glass door, perfect for keeping oneself hidden from prying eyes, a feature for which I was extremely grateful.

Slowly, I opened the shower door with my good arm and turned on the tap as hot as it would go, steam beginning to rise from the cool tile almost instantly as I stepped in.

_Here goes._

I bit my lip to keep from reacting to the immediately intense heat as I ducked my head under the spray, my body fighting to adjust from it's previous post-hypothermic state to a suddenly overheated one. The water scoured my bony frame, erasing days of sweat, dirt, and the last bit of lingering blood from beneath my chipped fingernails, leaving only reddened skin in it's place. Taking a moment to wash my hair and body with nondescript-smelling soap, I studiously ignored the way my shoulder burned and focused instead on delving into my recent memories.

A part of my skill set was compartmentalization; I was good at keeping problems in mental boxes until a suitable moment to address them presented itself, and no way was I going to rack my brains and inevitably panic in front of Crane, not when I so desperately needed to stay on my toes around him.

_Figuratively, at the very least. _

I thought back to a few moments before I'd been gassed, trying to remember all that had occurred; sounds, smells, sensations, everything. I'd been running, running through the exhaustion and pain and the cold, and he'd tripped me...

_All of the air rushed from my lungs as my pursuer straddled me, but my arms wouldn't respond to my command to push him off. My head swam; I was seconds from passing out. _

"_Johnny boy thinks you need time to heal before we experiment on you," he grinned sickly, and blood dripped down from the open gash on his forehead from my gurney trick, "but after that little display, I think you're ready for the first test, don't you? You don't know how long I've waited for this. Ever since I first heard you scream, I've searched all over for one to match it. I've never even come close."_

I gasped as the memory replayed itself with incredible accuracy before my eyes, my perfect pitch making it seem like The Scarecrow was still snarling the words in my ear as I trembled beneath the spray.

_That's_ why I was here. _That's_ what he'd meant in the courtroom a few days ago, when he'd said I had a pretty scream; he liked the sound of it.

_I should have put it together before. How could I have been so stupid? He likes my scream... of course he does. Screams are his thing, aren't they? Logically, it makes sense; I mean, I do sing, and I haven't screamed in years, so I suppose it would sound different to him than others... _

I was disgusted, but I tried to progress with the memories after he'd gassed me; I had to relive it to understand just what I would be up against the next time it happened. And it would. I wasn't stupid enough to believe he'd only gas me once. This was the _Scarecrow_ we were talking about. The man _lived_ on fear; he _breathed_ fear like a normal person would breathe oxygen. He loved the sound of screams the way I loved the sound of my Stradivarius.

"_**Scream for me!"**_

_I was kneeling in a pool of my mother's blood in that cursed alleyway, staring down at her still face..._

_My fault..._

_Screams echoed around me, but instead of the unfamiliar ones that I remembered from that night, this time they were personal, intimate, recognizable... _

_I lent my voice to the sound, my scream real and raw as it pierced the air for the first time in eight years, shrieking as my soul was broken yet again..._

Tears threatened to drip down my face as I remembered, panic welling in my chest. Something had happened after this, something that had made my stomach writhe, something that had terrified me more than anything in my entire life... What was it? I recalled the overwhelming sense of terror, the screaming, the inability to breathe...

_Wait a minute... _Why_ couldn't I breathe?_

And then it hit me like a ton of freaking bricks.

_His lips suddenly and unexpectedly slanted over my own, devouring my screams... _

Panic filled me to the core and I sank against the tile, my hand pressed firmly against my mouth as the scalding spray poured steadily down my skin.

_Metal and ice and blood... if you could taste fear his mouth was saturated in it. _

The Scarecrow had kissed me. Horrified, I fisted my hands in my hair and curled into a tight ball on the floor, ignoring the pain in my body as I shuddered uncontrollably from fear and revulsion.

I had never been kissed before, unless you counted that one time in the first grade when Sammy Stuart pulled my hair on the playground and then pecked my cheek when I turned around to slug him, but given the circumstances now I was legitimately considering cutting my lips _off_. Bile rose in my throat, and this time there was no holding it back as I bent over the drain, dry-heaving violently due to a lack of anything on my stomach.

_My enemy, the man I fear and hate more than anyone else on the planet, the man who destroyed my life, _kissed_ me. Why? _

I froze.

_Surely... surely not. _

Scarecrow couldn't possibly... _he isn't capable_... was this some sort of twisted, warped affection? Did he really enjoy my screams so much that I was... _desirable_, to him?

I retched again.

The intensity of the emotions I was feeling overwhelmed me, and, just like that, I shut down. The sudden numbness and exhaustion hit me with the force of a freight train, and I sank on the tile next to the shower drain, completely spent. Almost idly, I wondered what would happen if I just never moved, if I just laid there until Crane came looking for me or I died from my wounds or starvation.

A part of me was _so_ ready to quit, to let him do what he wanted with me. All my previous thoughts of fighting back fled my brain; I had no desire to bring... _that_ upon myself again.

In three days, I had been shown a world that I did not understand, had never understood, even feared. Out there, on the streets, I understood the threats lurking in the shadows and I knew how to combat them. Out there, I was The Maestro, I was seamlessly in control; I was powerful and untouchable. Out there, _I_ was someone to be feared.

But here, with Crane? I was in a place where only the mind could grant power, and this was not a playing field I could use to my advantage.

I was afraid.

I was afraid because here, I was just... _her_. The girl I had been before; the girl whose name my mother had shouted as I'd run from her in a panic. I was a weak, cowardly nobody that had to rely on the intervention of make-believe angels to be rescued. The persona I had fought so hard to build up was irrelevant in a place where not even the beauty and power of music could penetrate the darkness. The walls I'd constructed to keep myself from vulnerability had been scaled and blown apart with a few moments of recollection and a single kiss.

I was undone, which wasn't anything new, of course, except now I was undone, hopeless, and in the presence of the man who had made me that way.

_Oh, and don't forget you're a code-breaking murderer._

The thought only made my condition worsen. Not even the Batman killed with the power he had, but in a moment of sheer fury and bloodlust, I had done so. _Twice_. Consciously. Knowingly. I had even tried to kill more. And on top of all of that, Scout, a twelve-year-old girl, was now totally alone.

If I closed my eyes, the way my exhausted body begged me to, nothing demanded that I would have to reopen them. I could quit, slowly, quietly, without fanfare; I could give up in silence and no one would stop me. And as weight of my failures, brought on by fear, swirled around my brain in a fog I could not fight off, I nearly did.

And then... I remembered.

_Scout..._

Out of nowhere, Stitches' voice echoed through my memory, as clearly as though she was standing before me.

"_Watch over my little sister. Watch over Scout. Promise me."_

And I had promised, hadn't I? No, I'd done more than that. I'd had sworn it on my life. And yet, here I was, lying on the floor of Crane's shower, pitying myself like a child. Scout and my rebels needed me, and I was _sulking_.

Slowly, I sat up and forced myself to stop shaking. I was stronger than this. I had to be.

I'd promised myself I'd win this war for Scout; I promised myself she'd get a chance. I couldn't afford to quit, no matter how afraid I was, no matter how many new scars I'd be left with by the time it was all over.

I _had_ to fight back. I had to be the coward's antithesis; I had to be _brave_. Though, granted, a little fear was probably acceptable in this situation. I was resigned to the fact that there was no way around this emotion for the time being, but fear made me human; it separated me from monsters like Crane.

_He's trying to break me. Nice try Doc, but I've already been broken by you once before. I'm not about to let it happen again._

Besides, if anybody had a right to be afraid, it was Crane, because now I was angry. _Seriously_ angry. In a matter of seconds, Maestro's walls went back up, and the coward I knew myself to be vanished without a trace.

A small smile touched my lips as the beginnings of a new tune trailed through my head, and I carefully stood up, shutting off the water and drumming the fingers of my good hand against my leg.

_Crane wants entertainment? Well that's what I'm here for. _

Cautiously, I stepped out of the shower and gingerly dried my damp hair with a towel, wincing at every movement of my wounded shoulder. Mentally, I began to brace myself for my looming encounter with the demented ex-psychologist. I already knew the questions I would ask; it was _his_ that were worrying me. The mind was his playing field, which meant I had to be sharp and careful not to give too much away; a daunting task on an empty, and now currently complaining, stomach.

After searching for a moment, I discovered a new roll of bandage beneath the sink and withdrew it to rewrap my shoulder, hissing in pain all the while. The finished product wasn't as immaculate as the doctor's previous work, but then again, he was probably slightly OCD.

Once my shoulder was bound, I proceeded to dress, trying not to revel in the feeling of clean clothes or feel nauseated at the sight of the underwear. The shirt I'd been wearing when I fell into the bay was, unsurprisingly, gone, replaced with a simple black T-shirt that conveniently hugged my form. My brown leather jacket had been swapped, much to my dismay, with an ordinary navy windbreaker. That bothered me even more than the underwear, but I merely made a face and continued on. I hadn't really expected it to be salvageable after all. The socks and boots went on next, and as I threw my still partially-damp hair into a ponytail the obvious lack of a mask did not escape my notice. I'd have to see if I could get it back somehow, or at least find out where it was. It was hard to be Maestro when _her _exhausted face kept staring back at me in the mirror.

I looked down to avoid my reflection as I always did, and that's when I saw it.

Her necklace. Stitches' necklace, the _V_ pendant on a chain. I'd assumed it had been lost in the bay, but I'd never been so glad to be wrong.

I picked it up gingerly, holding it up to the light to examine it further. If it had been recovered with me in the water, why had Crane given it back to me? Why allow me the necklace and not my mask?

_No doubt some strange psychological tactic designed to mess with my head. _

Deciding this was the most likely answer, I slipped the necklace on, tucking it into my shirt, and turned to face the door.

It was time. I was still weak, still injured, and still sick, but it was time nevertheless. With a bracing inhale, I reached forward and turned the doorknob.

_Let the games begin. _

**~DKR~**

Jonathan Crane listened to the sound of the girl's shower running as he had been for several minutes now, his mind whirring at a dizzying pace. He hadn't expected her to accept his proposal; not right away at least. She really must have been desperate for information if she was willing to agree to anything that quickly. Then again, it could have been because she was under obvious physical stress; he wasn't kidding when he'd said she surprised him by trying to run two days ago. By all counts, she should have been barely strong enough to talk.

_**That only makes her more fun, Johnny-boy. I can't wait to test her again. Did you hear her **_**scream****_?_**

He winced briefly at the sudden interruption of his counterpart.

_It was hard to miss. However, she needs to heal before we put her under again. The condition we found her in was bad enough, regardless of how attractive she is when afraid. _

_**So to kill time you get to play psychologist while I sit here, completely bored? **_Scarecrow's sulk made him rub the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses.

_Her mind can't break too soon or all our work will be for nothing. Too much stress, psychological or physical, could ruin it all. Then what will you fantasize about? _

The Scarecrow's answering sneer made him roll his eyes.

_**Fine. That kiss should be enough to tide me over for a while, anyway. She tasted so **_**good****_-_**

Crane sat forward, cutting off that line of thought before it could go somewhere undesirable. Admittedly lovely though her scream was, he did not share his other half's fixation with her physical aspects, whether it be kisses or scent or anything else. Rather, it was her _mind_ that was intriguing to him. She seemed to constantly be dancing between the lines of fear and defiance; at times one emotion even seemed to fuel the other, and it was incredibly fascinating to him. He was eager to discover what had broken her the night they'd met, all those years ago; he wanted her to relive it again and again, to watch the fear cloud her bottomless black eyes as they had two days ago and revel in the mesmerizing sound of her terror.

_**See? You do like her. **_

_I never denied her intrigue._

There was a few more minutes of silence as Crane attempted to work out her reactions to the questions he'd ask. He had no doubt that she'd surpass his imagination in every way.

_**This is boring. What do you suppose she's doing in there, Johnny? Do you think she's thinking of us?**_

_Probably. However, it's likely more about what we've _done_ to her. _

_**Think she'll let us do more? **_

He was about to retort when the sound of the shower cutting off made him pause.

_Sounds like she's finished. Stay quiet so I can concentrate, or I'll make you wait a month before you see her again. _

_**Whatever you say, Johnny-boy, so long as I get to play with her as a reward if I behave. **_

Crane couldn't keep the smirk off of his face.

_I suppose it's not out of the question... _

A few more minutes passed, and he was beginning to wonder if she'd fallen or injured herself further – he wouldn't put it past her to let herself die without calling for help, just to spite him – when the sound of the door opening caught his attention. Slowly, as though he had all the time in the world, he turned to face her.

She stood there with her good arm braced on her hip, the other flat against her body. Her damp hair was pulled back and her face was pale, and while she appeared to be barely standing upright, a look of extreme defiance was written across her face, and her dark eyes flashed in challenge.

_There's the Maestro, but where's the other one? Must have had time to put her walls back up. Pity. Ah well, I could do with a little entertainment. _

He let a subtle challenge fill his own eyes as he regarded her, nodding towards the chair across from where he was seated at the kitchen table. Cautiously, never losing the defiant fire in her eyes, she did so.

_**Let the games begin. **_

**A/N: Okay, so before you start throwing things for my absence, allow me to explain. I have suddenly (and completely accidentally, I assure you) developed a life over the past month, much to my own dismay. (Plus also I discovered the amazing Alan Rickman played a villian in _Die Hard_ and I subsequently had to take a few days to fangirl. That one was my fault. Sorry.) So just take that into account whenever you chose what you're going to throw. In any case, I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter, so be sure to let me know what you think. All questions will be answered NEXT chapter, I promise this time. The plot bunnies keep switching things up on me. :P**

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Eyes Open" by Taylor Swift, and Maestro's tattoo belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber. **

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, **Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! She really beta'd the crap outta this one guys, so let's give her a round of applause!**

**A special thanks also to (deep breath):** JellyBean09, QuirkyRandomChika, Jenny, DesdemonaEmo13, a random bat, ElfinCleona, WithNoFear, margo, SilverBulletAngel, keeleymcgregor213, anon, Kagome Narome, AlainHotCoco1, Misplaced Levity, WarriorDragonElf54, Eva Sirico, crisis what crisis, Classicsara, **and** MockingjayWolf **for the all the inspiring reviews, as well as those who favorited or alerted! You guys seriously make my entire life. No lie. :) **

**More REVIEWS = faster updates! Try it and see!**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	11. The Alone

**For Your Entertainment**

_You were standing in the wake of devastation  
__And you were waiting on the edge of the unknown  
__And with the cataclysm raining down  
__Insides crying "Save me now"  
__You were there, impossibly alone  
_

_Do you feel cold and lost in desperation?  
__You build up hope, but failure's all you've known  
__Remember all the sadness and frustration  
__And let it go.  
__Let it go._

_And in a burst of light that blinded every angel  
__As if the sky had blown the heavens into stars  
__You felt the gravity of tempered grace  
__Falling into empty space  
__No one there to catch you in their arms._

_Chapter X_

_The Alone_

_Previously..._

"_Do you know how long you've been unconscious?" "A day?" "Two, actually." _

"_So you basically just plan on keeping me here for your _entertainment_?"_

"_I propose a compromise. You answer my questions, and I'll answer yours."_

"_Deal."_

_**Let the games begin...**_

**~DKR~**

Crane was silent as I sat down, which worried me slightly. When dangerous and brilliant men are quiet, it usually means they're plotting. Since most of his latest plots seemed to involve me being injured in some way, I was, understandably, not comfortable with the idea.

_Though I think I'd prefer injuries to kissing. _

Light streamed in from a small window high above the table, a window I hadn't noticed on my mad dash for the door two days earlier, illuminating hovering pieces of dust and the darker flecks of blue in his icy eyes.

For a moment, neither of us spoke or moved, each trying to get a feel for the other. When he did finally reach down to pick something off of the floor, I flinched, then mentally cursed as he smirked.

_Knock it off, Maestro, that's the second time you've done that today. _

He pulled up a white paper sack, the bottom of which was spotted with clear grease, and I hated the way my mouth instantly began to fill with saliva.

_Hungryhungryhungry! _My stomach demanded, and it took every ounce of restraint in my body to keep from yanking the bag from his hand. Fortunately, he didn't make me, either because this was another move in his favorite game of "Mess with Maestro's Mind" or he simply wanted to get on with things, and tossed the sack carelessly in my direction. I caught it with the delicacy of someone handling fine china, before practically ripping open the bag to get at the burger and fries inside. In that second, I didn't care that I was taking food from the man I hated. If I refused, I would probably drop from weakness, and that wouldn't do anybody any good. I doubted I had the willpower to do so, anyway.

The sandwich was literally the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth, and I'm not sure I could tell you everything that was on it; I practically inhaled the thing as Crane looked on in amusement.

"The Great Maestro deigns to eat in my presence. I'm flattered." he commented wryly as I crumpled the wrapping that had once covered the burger and tossed it back on the table, having now sated my hunger enough to eat the fries one at a time, as opposed to just shoving handfuls in my mouth as I had been tempted to do at the beginning.

I shot him a dirty look but said nothing, as conversing with him left a bad taste in my mouth and I wanted to enjoy these last precious bites of food. It was gone all too soon, however, and I finally pushed the last of my trash away and sat back, stomach full, before looking at him expectantly. When he said nothing, I sighed and made a "continue" motion with my hands.

"Well?" I demanded in a rasp, quelling the spark of annoyance that reared its head at the sound of my damaged vocal chords, "you wanted to get inside my head, right? So get on with it."

He smirked.

"What, no thank you?"

The look I shot him was one of disgust.

_A sandwich is the least you owe me, creep. _

He gave a mock-sigh at my silence and sat forward, before placing a recording device on the table and switching it on. I looked at it, and then him, incredulously.

"You're joking."

"I assure you I'm quite serious. I record all of my sessions for later study." he responded coolly, and I frowned at the sound of the superiority in his tone.

_Remember Maestro, this is about answers. Tell him what you can, but don't let him inside your head. Oh, and that reminds me..._

"Where is my mask?" I asked suddenly, not really expecting him to tell me, but at least he seemed surprised at the abrupt change in topic.

"Why? I've more than seen your face." he responded, studying me with those deadly blue eyes of his.

I glowered.

"Not the point."

"Ah. _That_ I can certainly understand. However, you don't get it back just yet. I'm not interested in Maestro; she's deluded herself into thinking she's on the same level as the Batman and is therefore not worth my time. No, I want to talk to the other one, the girl behind the mask. The one whose face I can see." he said, leaning forward with sudden interest.

"She's dead," I spat, feeling the lie on my tongue but determined that he would never know the truth, "she's been dead for years."

"Somehow I doubt that. I've seen her, and I think she's still in there somewhere."

"Not all of us are made up of more than one person." I snapped back, anger rising.

He gave me a look then, one I couldn't interpret and, frankly, wasn't sure I wanted to.

"No, not all. But you and I are."

"And when – _if_ – you do somehow manage to find my 'other half'?" I asked, only partially sarcastic, and shivered when I heard the Scarecrow's darker tones bleed into his reply.

"_I'll make her scream again_."

I tensed, fear and fury forming a volatile cocktail in my veins.

_Not freaking likely, you psycho. Never again. _

Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the Scarecrow's influence faded away, leaving an almost bored-looking Crane in his place. I momentarily marveled at his mood swings and scrambled to regroup.

"I believe it's my turn for a question?" he inquired, and I frowned, realizing I'd accidentally used up one of my own. We hadn't specified a limit, but I made a mental note to stick to the most pressing matters just in case. Besides, the more I asked, the more he asked, and I was eager to keep him as away from my private life as possible.

I was glad I no longer needed to ask why he'd chosen to spare me; it would have been far worse if he'd had to tell me himself instead of me figuring it out on my own. Something told me he knew I'd figured it out as well, and I was relieved when he didn't bring it up.

"Why do you call yourself The Maestro?" he began, and I shifted, wondering how best to answer the question. Finally, I sighed.

"I have perfect pitch, which allows me to connect to music in a way that not many people can. I can learn to play any instrument by ear and I write large symphonies when I'm bored." I responded.

"Why 'maestro'? Surely there were any number of musical aliases to choose from, since your own name clearly meant nothing to you." he commented dryly, and I couldn't keep from smirking at him.

"The maestro of the orchestra is the director, the one who gives the orders. The maestro is the one totally in control of every section of the masterpiece being presented, which is oftentimes something of the maestro's own design." I replied evenly, my smirk widening as I watched understanding dawn in his eyes.

"The name is an assertion of your power. It's arrogance."

My grin broadened to a full-on smile, albeit a wicked one.

"I have many wonderful traits, Doc, but humility sadly isn't one of them."

"And I suppose asking you your real name would be pointless?"

"Yup."

He studied me again, seeming to turn something over in his mind.

"I'll get it out of you eventually, you know."

I shrugged, inwardly slightly amused.

_The Batman doesn't even know my name. What on earth makes you think I'd ever tell _you_?_

"We'll see, won't we?" I asked, attempting to sound bored and not as though the thought of him using his toxin to make me scream my name flashed before my eyes. Because it did.

_And, cue the mortal terror... yep, there it is, right on schedule. Lovely. _

"So what should I call you in the meantime?" he asked quietly, in a way that made it sound as though he were talking more to himself than to me. I figured he probably had a _lot_ of experience in that area.

"Well, I'd prefer not to be within speaking distance of you, but you could, I don't know, use my _name_." I spat, growing more and more irritated that the man – _nightmare_ – wasn't getting the picture.

"No, I already mentioned it doesn't suit you. Let's see... a musician in a cage, not in control at all..." _This_ little monologue was for my benefit, that much was obvious, and I fixed him with a challenging glare. Suddenly, his face lit up.

"_Songbird_. Yes, that fits quite well." he said, sitting back and taking in my reaction. I'm sorry to say that I probably didn't disappoint.

I tensed and my face went white, while anger at the nickname that was obviously meant to demean flared in my chest.

_Holy freaking _crap_ that's close..._

Still, I lifted my chin and glowered at him scornfully.

"Cute. Infantile, but cute just the same. Now, it's my turn, unless there's anything else about me you'd like to criticize?"

His eyes flashed in cruel amusement.

"I'm sure it can wait. By all means, continue."

"Does Bane know I'm here?" I asked immediately, sitting forward in anticipation of the answer. I hadn't seen hide or hair of any Goons since I'd been here, which was both unsettling and relieving since I'd learned to look over my shoulder for them every day for over a month.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses, seemingly very annoyed at the mention of the terrorist. I was reminded that Crane was an extreme narcissist; the thought of having to take orders when it came to the courts, (despite his continued claims that Bane truly held no power there) probably irked him to no end. Taking orders probably didn't sit well with him, something to which I could, reluctantly, relate.

"He was told that you fell through the ice. I merely allowed him to assume what he wanted." said Crane softly. I raised an eyebrow.

"You didn't tell him you took me? What about the Goo- his men?"

He gave a small, superior smirk, that, for the first time since I'd seen him, _wasn't_ directed at me, and his eyes flashed conspiratorially.

"Bane assumed that they were more afraid of him than of anything else, and as a result they would never hide anything from him. He was quite wrong. They fear much, _much_ more than him."

I didn't doubt it and suppressed a shiver at his tone.

_That... is actually quite brilliant. Scary and sick, yes, but also brilliant._

"So he knows nothing about the massive gunfight or my failed escape attempt?"

"All he knows, and might I add I just made this point not five seconds ago, is that the ice collapsed under you, and you fell through. It isn't really an unusual fate among those sentenced to exile." Crane said, rolling his eyes behind his glasses.

I snorted despite myself.

"That's not even a lie."

"Sometimes even _I_ have to deal with the disappointment of having to tell the truth. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, if you stop and consider it. I get to keep my life and test subject," he smirked darkly again, and I was jolted out of my brief moment of amusement at the reminder of just _who_ I was conversing somewhat civilly with, "and you get the 'masked menace', as your brats call him, off your back. He can't target someone he believes to be dead."

I sneered at him.

"So I simply exchanged one deluded psycho for another. Lucky me."

His gaze was cruel and cold and mocking.

"While we're on the subject of the delusional, let's talk about the _Batman_." his sudden scorn was almost tangible in it's potency, and I shot him a glare that had been known to hospitalize weaker men, letting him know he was treading on dangerous ground.

"What about him?" I asked, attempting to sound casual despite the ever-present rasp in my throat.

"He's obviously your hero; he probably saved your life which explains your need to idolize him. But he's gone, _Songbird_, and not for the first time. Why would you put the person who keeps abandoning you on a pedestal?" he asked, something in his tone telling me he knew how this conversation was affecting me. I chose my next words carefully despite my tide of rising anger at his continued use of that _stupid_ name.

"I guess because I don't see it that way."

"Oh?"

"I don't see someone who leaves. I see someone who has always come back. Despite how much he was hated, despite the number of people who keep trying to kill him, despite the fact that this city has spit in his face time and time again, he has always come back. And I know he will again, because that's the kind of ang- _person_ he is. He's always been there when we needed him most." I felt my face color at my minor slip even as I tried to play it off, and something in Crane's eyes told me he knew exactly what I'd been about to say. They tore a hole straight through me, stripping me of every defense I'd put up until he reached the epicenter of my being.

"You mean he's always been there when your parents weren't."

My eyes widened.

_How? How could he have known? _

Maybe it was some kind of superpower psychologists had, and he had just never turned it in when he turned in his sanity.

"What makes you say that?"

"Simple psychology; the loyalty you have for him is very much the way a child is loyal to his or her father. To them, he's an 'angel' that can do no wrong and will always be there. You're projecting because you feel alone." he said, sounding bored.

I bit back a snarl. My dad hadn't been an angel; he was anything but.

"My turn," I said, too quickly for it to be anything but obvious that I wanted a subject change, "where are we, exactly?"

He cocked his head at me.

"Why does it matter? You aren't going anywhere."

"Humor me," I spat back, growing irritated.

"We are currently in the basement of the penthouse building where I live." he replied smoothly, and I blinked.

"Bane let you have a freaking _penthouse_? Just because you send people to their deaths with a few bangs of your hammer a couple times a day?" I'd always secretly wanted a penthouse; it would be just spacious enough to hold all of my music, but still be small enough for just one person. If I ever became somebody important, that's where I'd live.

A snarl formed on his lips.

"He didn't _let_ me have anything. I've lived here for years."

Right. Narcissist. Forgot about that.

"Where in the city are we?" I asked, pretending that was my question all along. In reality, just knowing that I was in a _basement_ was calming, and the very fact that there was a window let me know that I wasn't buried in some secret lab five miles underground. Because that? That would suck.

He raised an eyebrow.

"That you certainly don't need to know." he responded, and I made a face but let it slide, knowing that it really wouldn't have made a difference anyway.

"And now for my question," Crane continued, shifting in his chair to get more comfortable and adjusting the recording device on the table out of what looked like habit, "tell me about your parents." There was something that looked like... well, not quite excitement, but _interest_, on his face.

"No." I replied without hesitation. I tried to keep my voice calm despite the fear of refusing him that had suddenly settled in my stomach.

Something flashed dangerously in his gaze, but he merely pursed his lips and rolled his shoulders before reaching for the recording device again.

"As you wish. It looks like our session has been concluded."

"No!" I repeated, reaching out and grabbing his wrist without thinking, "I've still got questions."

With an almost inhuman speed, his free hand lashed out and grabbed my own in a vice grip, and my life flashed before my eyes as I recognized the Scarecrow.

_I should never have touched him. _

"Johnny told you, _Songbird_," he hissed, his eyes and voice significantly darker and I trembled in terror, too afraid to even attempt to pull away or become irritated with the name, "the more questions you answer, the more answers you'll get. How well did you honestly expect your so-called 'right to pass' to go?"

I didn't answer, petrified as his hand tightened around my wrist. There would be bruises there tomorrow.

He sneered at my silence.

"The Great Maestro, the one who runs her mouth almost constantly is suddenly at a loss for words? Contact the _Gotham Times._"

He paused and looked at me, really looked, and for a moment I believed he would release me as I tried not to tremble beneath the intensity of his gaze, to no avail. Instead, he tightened his grip even more and yanked me closer to him, our faces very close as I leaned across the table, too terrified to struggle. How had this gone downhill so fast?

"You don't want to talk about your parents because you believe your story is unique; special. Well, let's just see how many stereotypes you fit, shall we? You definitely come from a broken home, your type always does. You run an adamant anti-adult campaign, but I'd bet _anything_ it's _men_ you don't trust because daddy left you when you were young, am I right? Abandonment and trust issues galore, how sad. Because of this you feel the need to project your need for male attention elsewhere, in this case, onto the Batman, where it is sadly and pathetically unrequited. Now mommy's tricky; this could go either way, abusive or angelic. But I'm willing to bet based on your outburst the first time we spoke in the courthouse that she probably died the night I heard you scream and that you loved her _very_ much, am I right? But the Batman saved _you_, cementing your loyalty to him for eternity. So that's where your sad little quest for vengeance or justice or whatever they're calling it now began, and you've been alone ever since. But how does the Bat connect to _her_?" he mused aloud, and I cursed myself mentally for the sheen of tears that now clouded my vision, refusing to let him see them as something black and hate-filled clawed and tore at my soul, begging to be released.

I searched frantically for Maestro's walls and came up empty as Scarecrow systematically tore them down. Not even Jazz or Savvy knew these things about me and this man, this nightmare, this demon from the lowest levels of _hell_ had unearthed them with a glance.

But the Scarecrow wasn't finished.

"Did the Bat try and _connect_ with you about mommy?" he asked, sounding disgusted, "Did he come and find you and tell you how _sorry_ he was? Made you feel protected, safe? Did he make you feel like you had an _angel_ at your side? He's no angel, Songbird, he's a _man_, just like me."

My world exploded into red fury and a need for violence, and I launched myself at him, ignoring my exhaustion and pain yet again and managing to land a strike against his jaw before he reacted. He landed a single, solid clip to my shoulder, pointedly hitting my weakest spot, and I screamed in pain before doubling over, stars clouding my vision. I felt him take hold of my form and restrain (as well as support) me against his own body.

All I could think was that he was _so_ lucky I was injured, because otherwise he never would have taken control of the situation that easily.

"I wondered how long it would take for you to resort to physical violence." he said coolly, the soft tones telling me Crane had regained control, and my head spun as he slowly – almost gently, which was bizarre – guided my form to the cot against the wall I'd seen earlier.

"You're wrong," I managed through the pain as he released me, allowing me to fall carelessly onto the cot.

"About?" he asked, sounding faintly amused as I leaned back against the wall, overwhelmingly dizzy and suddenly nauseated.

"The Batman. He's not just a man, he's more than that. And he's certainly nothing like _you_." I replied, closing my eyes and feeling the truth of it, allowing it to strengthen me, to soothe me. Batman was better than Crane. Batman was a hero.

Secretly, in the darkest, most remote part of my mind, I wondered if I really _was_ projecting onto him. It was a concern I would never, _ever_ voice aloud.

"You should sleep," Crane said, as casually as though the last thirty seconds had never happened as he switched off the recording device and placed it back in his pocket, rubbing his jaw where a bruise was beginning to form, "you've had a _very_ trying day, and I've got to get back to the courthouse, lest your masked menace come knocking."

I didn't want to sleep, I wanted to stand and yell and hit him, but the pain in my shoulder was agonizing and I was cold again, so I curled up against the wall and rested my forehead on my knees.

I was so tired of mind games.

For a moment, there was utter silence, and I could feel his icy gaze on me. Then there was a hand fisted in my hair and hot breath on my ear, and I tensed, fingernails digging into my jeans.

I didn't dare look up.

"You are a very remarkable specimen, Songbird," Crane murmured, and I wanted to hit him again but didn't dare, "and if I were to lose you now, after how well we've come to know each other... well, I'd be _very_ put out. So be a good girl and don't do anything _stupid_."

It occurred to me that he wasn't talking about escaping, he was talking about me killing or injuring myself further if I tried.

There was a brush of something smooth and warm that passed over the shell of my ear, there for the briefest moment and gone the next. I went rigid, blood boiling.

"Drop dead." I hissed, so quietly I wasn't sure if he heard me.

His only reply was a dark chuckle, and after another moment or two, I heard the door to my right open, shut, and then lock.

I was alone.

I was cold.

I was angry.

I lifted my chin and turned to look at the window, right above the table where the horrible conversation had taken place, and gave a small smirk.

_I was getting out of here. _

**~DKR~**

_There were four of them. _

_Men with guns, that is. _

_They slammed through the hospital doors, fired a few rounds in the air, and moved swiftly along, only leaving one man behind to guard the staff, now lying on the ground, that populated the lobby. _

_Stitches crouched next to the cart she'd been using to deliver meals to patients, her mind and heart racing. There was only one person important enough to kill here; the very same person that had been attacked and admitted only a few nights ago and had always smiled at her when she brought him his meals. _

_Commissioner Gordon. _

_She didn't know what prompted her next course of action; looking back on it she never would, because she had never been particularly brave; that was always her sister's area of expertise. Maybe it was the fact that she was close to the ward where she knew a back staircase was located, one that would give her a direct shortcut to Gordon's hallway. Maybe it was the thought that no, a man like him didn't deserve to die; not like this. Maybe it was the fact that she knew her mother, nowhere near the lobby, would have no idea that there were armed men in the the building. Maybe it was the fact that she just knew she had to move. _

_So she did._

_She sprang forward from her crouched position and burst through the doors, her momentum and sudden movement giving her a massive head start over the man guarding the lobby. She had slipped into the stairwell and was halfway up before he even had time to pursue, and she knew he wouldn't catch up to her, not having seen where she'd turned. _

_And so she ran. Or flew, more accurately, for her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. Panic and urgency pulsed through her veins; she wasn't even sure _why_ she was running with such desperation. but she did not stop or even slow. Something drove her up, up, up, and she chose to listen to it rather than think. _

_Finally, after precious long moments, she burst through the doors at the top of the stairwell leading to Gordon's ward. His room was at the other end; a quick sprint would get her there in no time and then she could... warn him, or do whatever it was her gut was telling her to do now. She had thrown logic out the window long ago, and stopping to plan had never even crossed her mind. _

_She sprinted towards the end of the hall; her sneakers pounded the linoleum as she desperately sucked in air, her lungs burning. _

_There were three of them. _

_Men with guns, that is. _

_They'd arrived on the third floor and were currently making a beeline to Gordon's room. Stitches was too far away; she wasn't going to make it before they did. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, feeling the words form on her tongue, when something happened that made her skid to a halt._

_Her mother. _

_She was coming out of Gordon's room, her attention fixed on her clipboard, oblivious to the danger she was in, and Stitches' words stuck in her throat. She couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't even think._

_The rapid movement of the men suddenly caught her mother's eye, and that's when it happened. _

_With the speed of a woman used to dealing with emergency situations, she registered the guns in the hands of the men and understood why they were there, and a look of fierce determination crossed her face. She planted her feet in front of the Commissioner's doorway, arms held out as though to keep the men at bay. Stitches knew this stance; she knew it well. It was the protector, the defender, the fighter; it was the part of her mother that had sworn an oath to do what was necessary to save her patient, regardless of the sacrifice. _

_Two gunshots. That was it._

_A simple double-tap was all it took to bring her mother, her strong, beautiful mother who had raised two children on her own after the death of her husband and simultaneously kept up a difficult job with odd hours, to the ground, and the men carelessly shoved her form mid-fall into an empty room nearby. _

_Belatedly, Stitches found her voice. _

_She screamed. _

**~DKR~**

(_One day before Maestro's awakening_)

Scout was on her feet almost before she'd awakened, stumbling away from her mat in the corner of the new base, yet another warehouse, as tears streamed down her face.

It had been three nights now.

Three nights since they'd brought her sister to her wrapped in an old tarp.

Three nights since they'd moved bases.

Three nights since Maestro had been taken.

Three nights since she'd been left alone.

Three nights of the same horrific dream.

It was exactly the way Stitches had described; it had taken days of begging to get her to reveal anything about what she had seen of their mother's death, but when she finally did, her sister had been unable to spare a detail, weeping as she recounted the story. She supposed it was only fitting that the dream take on Stitches' perspective, rather than her own.

Scout was the one weeping now, trembling with grief as she avoided the rebels who were still awake inside the base as well as the lookouts on the rooftops when she burst into the cold night air, maneuvering around them with an ease that comes with being a spy. She didn't know where she was going, only that it was _away_, and that this was, in her mind, a good thing.

The streets were dark and ominous and eerie, but Scout paid no mind as she walked, pulling her wounded arm tighter against herself and allowing muscle memory to take over.

She was exhausted and alone.

"Scout?"

Then again, maybe not.

The tearful girl looked up to see that she had wandered in front of the restaurant the commissioner's men had taken up residence in, and that it was Gordon himself who had called her name. He was standing in the threshold of the doorway that opened into the alley, the light from behind him silhouetting his frame and preventing her from seeing his expression.

"Hello Commissioner." she greeted quietly, brushing her tears away with the sleeve of her jacket and hoping it was too dark for him to notice.

Savvy had moved their base closer to Gordon's since she and Jazz were spending nearly all of their time there nowadays, planning and scheming while their scouts rounded up any intel on the trucks and The Maestro's whereabouts. They had done one or two small raids on the Goon Patrols, emerging the victors each time with the Gordon's armed men at their backs, but so far Bane had not retaliated. Perhaps he was still reveling in his supposed victory over The Maestro. However, he was very probably lying in wait, ready to pounce when one of them made a mistake.

"Are you alright, kid?" the commissioner asked just as quietly as she had spoken, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She nodded, stepping farther away from the light so he couldn't see the grief on her face.

"Fine, sir. I was just out for a walk."

"It's awfully cold out," Gordon replied with the characteristic concern of a parent, "Why don't you come inside?"

Scout hesitated. Had Maestro been around, she would have refused out of loyalty if nothing else and turned to go back to her base and her leader.

But Maestro wasn't here.

Scout was alone.

With a nod, she stepped into the light and avoided looking at Gordon's face, instead gripping her wounded arm with her good hand and shuffling into the building. The kitchen, dubbed the "War Room" by Savvy and Jazz, was void of people, and Gordon guided her to a chair before placing his jacket over her shoulders.

She sneezed, completely out of the blue, making the commissioner jump and her realize how cold it had actually been outside.

"Sorry," she apologized sheepishly, before looking back down at the table. He gave her a small smile and began rummaging around behind her. The sound of pouring liquid reached her ears, but she didn't turn to look.

"I didn't mean to bother you," she continued softly, looking at one of the maps on the table that was covered in red X's that represented targets, "I wasn't even planning on walking by. It kind of just... happened."

Gordon placed a styrofoam cup of something that steamed delightfully in front of her and sat down quietly. She smelled chocolate and for a moment, a single instant in time, her face brightened and she lunged for the cup, sipping it almost blissfully. It had been so long since she'd had hot chocolate; not since Bane had taken over had the liquid ever come by her lips. It seemed like such a lifetime ago, though it had only been a little over a month.

"Are you alright?" Gordon's voice interrupted her internal monologue for the second time that night.

She shrugged.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Are you having nightmares?" he inquired, and she snapped her head up to look at him in surprise.

"How did you know?"

He sighed and sat back.

"I deal with a lot of people who lose loved ones. It's common in trauma victims. Do you want to talk about it?"

Scout looked down. Maestro would tell her to say no, that she didn't want to talk about it, and why didn't he mind his own business, anyway?

But Maestro wasn't here.

Scout was alone.

"I keep having the same dream. I'm Stitches, and I'm in the hospital the day Mom died. I watch it happen, and then I wake up hearing her scream. It's just so... realistic. It doesn't feel like a dream, it feels like she's actually dying, over and over and over again, and no matter how many times it happens, I can't do anything to stop it. I can't save her," She sniffed, choking back a sob and feeling her eyes fill with tears, "No one saves her."

There was a sigh from the other end of the table, one that was grieved and weary, and she looked up to see pain in the commissioner's eyes. Pain for her.

"Scout," he began, his voice never rising above a murmur, "before she died, I gave your sister my word that I would make sure you both were taken care of. I couldn't keep my promise to her, but I'm keeping it to you," he sighed again, and sat forward, folding his hands on the table as he looked at her with a fatherly sort of gaze. "You aren't alone, alright? I know it feels that way, but trust me, you aren't. I'm here for whatever you need."

_Trust me. _

Scout stared at him as soon as those two words left his lips. Maestro never would have trusted him; he was an adult and a cop, and, in her mind, a liar. She reserved trust only for a precious few, only for those she deemed truly worthy.

But Maestro wasn't here.

And Scout...

"I do."

Scout trusted Gordon.

He seemed confused at her statement. The "trust" part of the conversation hadn't been his point, she knew, but it was the most important part, the part that mattered more than anything else.

"You do what?"

"Trust you."

It was both a warning and an assurance, and something changed in Gordon's eyes.

And while the pain for her sister was still fresh, and her fear for Maestro still thrummed like a second heartbeat in her soul, Scout didn't feel so alone anymore.

She didn't have another nightmare that night.

**A/N: Shorter chapter, I know, (almost 1000 words below my usual limit!) but there was a lot of dialogue in this bit and I was attempting not to bore you. Not really sure how I feel about this, as it really didn't want to be written. The action picks back up again next chapter somewhat. Also, Scout and Gordon bonding, anyone? Hope you enjoyed! **

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Iridescent" by Linkin Park. **

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, Amai-chan1993, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! This story wouldn't be near as good as it is today without her help. :)**

**A special thanks also to (deep breath): **WithNoFear, Eva Sirico, AlainHotCoco1, Solstice White, Deathstroke Terminator, VivieAnne, WarriorDragonElf54, MockingjayWolf, Cara Mia Caramel, ElfinCleona, dEnIsE tHe StRaNgE, SilverBulletAngel, a random bat, DesdemonaEmo13, Andyouthoughticared, and the outsider19** for the lovely reviews, as well as anyone who favorited or alerted! You guys are wonderful!**

**And now for a public service announcement: somewhere, in front of a computer screen far, far away from you, a muse lays starving. You can help. Leave a simple review in the box below, and you could save a life. Thank you. **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	12. The Escape

**For Your Entertainment**

_Welcome to the machine  
__It's a currency generator  
__And then it's a guillotine  
__A mirror held up to your own behavior  
__I'm gonna take my bow  
__And disappear into the sound  
__I'm leaving my cage on the ground_

_When I take my bow  
__I'm watching it burn to the ground  
__See my feet flying up through the clouds  
__When they distinguish your name  
__It may extinguish your flame  
__I'm gonna take my bow  
__And disappear into the sound  
__I'm leaving my cage on the ground  
__When I take my bow  
__I'm watching it burn to the ground  
__See my feet flying up through the clouds_

_Chapter XI_

_The Escape_

The window was my ticket out.

I decided this as I was rummaging around in the kitchenette, ignoring the fact that it was a _security_ window, designed for confinement, and had something that resembled chicken wire in-between the layers of glass. But I would address that problem when I came to it. For now, I needed to find my mask. The Goon who had taken it in the courtroom would have almost definitely given it to Crane; it was too much a part of who I was for him to not want to use it against me.

I opened every drawer, save for one that was locked, and peered inside every cabinet. It was nowhere to be found, much to my own irritation. If he had it on him when he left, then there was no chance of me getting it back.

It wasn't like I didn't have other masks back at the base and my apartment, but I wanted Crane to come back and find it gone, to know that I'd not only defied him, but that I'd done it as the Maestro and not... _her_.

With a grimace and a muttered curse as I tenderly rubbed my injured shoulder, which still hurt terribly, I turned to go back to the room where I'd awoken four days ago.

_Four days. _

I paused suddenly, counting in my head to be sure. Had I really been a captive that long?

_The day I was taken, the two days I was unconscious, and today. Yep, that makes four, provided Crane wasn't lying about the time frame, which he totally would. Crap, I should have considered that sooner!_

I increased my pace. Who knows what could have happened to my Young in that amount of time?

_I need to get out of here. _

The thought propelled me into the back room, and as I entered I couldn't help but expect Crane to jump out at me from behind the door, toxin in hand and aimed directly for my face.

_Yeah, and maybe he'll shout "Boo!" while he's at it. Get a grip._

The table to the left of the door still had many of the same chemicals and tubes as it had when I'd first regained consciousness here, but a few of them were different colors and some of them were no longer bubbling, so I assumed he'd been in here working at least periodically while I was asleep. The thought made a chill race down my spine, but I ignored it in favor of searching the room.

There wasn't much of a place to hide anything in here, really, unless you counted the crates beneath the table of chemicals. I knew it was doubtful my mask was in there, but I figured it couldn't hurt anybody but Crane if I snooped around a bit, which was really more of a reason to do it. Shoulders heaving with a sudden and unexpected round of coughs that left a stabbing pain in my chest – _I thought I was _over_ the whole "hypothermia" thing?_ – I crouched down, and, with some difficulty, pulled one of the crates forward. What I saw made me gasp in surprise.

Vials and vials and _vials_ of his colorless toxin in liquid form, each labelled with a specific shade of tape around the stopper, ranging from light green to a deep purple. There looked to be about five trays of this stuff, stacked in this exact order, one on top of the other. A small manifest on the side appeared to show the level of chemical potency, with the lighter colors having the least effect and the darker ones being the most dangerous.

I was looking at a crate full of fear.

Fighting back a rising wave of nausea, I nearly toppled the entire thing over and smashed the vials to bits, destroying what I was certain was months – possibly _years_ – worth of work. Crane's expression when he got back _totally_ would've been worth the sight of his face.

_Except if all of that is weaponized and gets into the air at the same time with no filter, my mind would never recover. _

The likelihood of a heart attack or cardiac arrest was also not completely out of the realm of possibility either.

I shivered.

Another idea was to pour them down the drain, but I didn't know how long that would take and the last time this stuff had gotten into the water main, things had ended badly for everyone. And with the cops in the sewers... No, I didn't dare risk it.

There was another crate like this one, with a manifest on the side detailing its contents, but a slight difference on the remaining two boxes caught my eye. Neither crate in the back had anything specifying what it carried, and one was slightly open. Frowning, I bent down and pushed the lid all the way off, examining the cargo therein.

It was filled with vials of the same colors, except these were slightly smaller and the liquid inside was cloudy. There were still five trays of the same shades stacked top of each other, but on the top tray, a vial in the corner were I estimated a bright yellow would be was missing.

_That's weird. He's pretty organized, so why would a vial be...?_

I checked the first crate I'd opened and discovered the corresponding yellow was missing there as well.

A suspicion was forming in my mind, and I glanced up at the table above me quickly for confirmation. Sure enough, two vials with bright yellow stoppers lay on the surface next to a pair of beakers. One held murky liquid, the other entirely clear. It looked like they had been refilled fairly recently. A notebook lay open next to it, filled with what looked to be notes in typical doctor's handwriting.

_He must have gassed me with the yellow vial. The cloudy liquid is the antitoxin, and it corresponds to the gas with the same color stopper. _

Without even thinking about it, I grabbed both vials and the notebook and stuffed them into the pockets of my windbreaker, not exactly certain what I was going to do with them but knowing they could be important. The objects weighed heavily against my side, reminding me of the power I could hold over someone if they only breathed it in.

_They would be at my mercy..._

Something connected in my mind right then, something crucial, but I lost it just as quickly as it appeared, repulsed as I was at my own thoughts.

I didn't want that kind of power. It created monsters out of everyone involved.

But I didn't put the vials back. Instead, I righted the lids of the crates and pushed them back under the table before striding out of the room and back into the kitchenette, covered in chills and yet strangely sweating.

_Ugh, I really hope I'm not still sick, because I _seriously_ don't have time for this. _

Speaking of things I didn't have time for, I glanced at the window and decided I was lingering too long. I needed to be out of here; the more time I spent trapped was more time my Young could be drawing ever closer to Bane's clutches. I couldn't let that happen.

There was one last thing I hadn't tried. I faced the locked drawer in the kitchen, studying it for a moment with my good hand braced against my hip. I was fairly decent at picking locks – perks of being a street kid – but I didn't have so much as a bobby pin with me. Maybe I could find something in Crane's lab and try to jimmy it?

I glanced back at the window.

_Screw it. _

Raising the heel of my boot, I grabbed the counter to balance myself and kicked at the side of the drawer, feeling it give way almost immediately. Two more kicks and the wood completely splintered around the metal, the drawer coming off its track, and I yanked the drawer open hastily.

"_Yes!_" I did a little victory dance on the spot. My white, gold, and music-lined mask stared back up at me, and I stroked it gently before placing it on my face. I could feel myself regain the control I had lost these past few days, feel _her_ slip back into nothingness as Maestro reappeared with a smirk on her lips and new tune in her head.

And this time, I would make sure she was here to stay.

Beneath my mask had been utensils and other necessary sharp objects he probably hadn't wanted me to be able get my hands on, and I nearly regretted leaving before getting a chance to use them. The idea of stabbing an unsuspecting Crane in the hand with a salad fork was almost too good to pass up.

Almost.

_Well, Doc, looks like it's time for the curtain call._

A wicked idea sprang to my mind as I laid eyes on a pen, and I ripped a blank page from Crane's journal before scrawling a message and signing it with a few music notes and a bat symbol. I left it on the cot near the door where he couldn't possibly miss it, grinning briefly when I thought of his reaction, before turning my attention once again to the window.

_Now then, how am I gonna do this? _

The window was positioned where the wall met the ceiling, the seam where the two planes touched being the top of the frame. It was about a foot wide and three feet long, so I would have no trouble getting my skeletal figure through the opening.

The only problem was _creating_ an opening. There was still the matter of that troublesome security glass.

I glanced at the table, placed immediately beneath the window, and then to the two chairs on either side of it. All three objects were made out of thick, sturdy wood.

_Well, it's worth a try. _

I stepped on the chair nearest me and then onto the table, before pulling the surprisingly heavy piece of furniture up after me and placing it directly in the center. I then stood on the seat and peered out the window, realizing that its base rested directly at street level and looked into an alley of some kind. There was an opening at both ends of it, but beyond that I couldn't see much except a few dumpsters, so I had no way of knowing where in Gotham I was. Hopefully, I'd be able to find out in a matter of moments.

I stepped off of the chair and bent down to pull the other one after me, wincing as I had to use both hands this time and feeling the barely-mending skin around my wound tear slightly. Crane's hit earlier certainly hadn't helped the healing process, and, with a grimace, I stepped back up onto the first chair and closed my eyes a moment, knowing how much this next step was going to suck.

And probably hurt.

A lot.

Then, with a small cry, I grabbed the back of the chair Crane had occupied and raised it, before swinging it with all my might at the glass in front of me. My shoulder wound broke open completely as the window shattered, but did not provide an opening, and I cursed loudly and creatively as I felt blood begin to seep into my bandage and probably through to my shirt.

I swore again. Now I was racing against the clock. At this rate, I'd start losing blood fast, and it was likely I wouldn't be able to lift _anything_ with that arm or at all in a matter of minutes. I had to do this _now_.

Ignoring the burning in my shoulder, I raised the chair again, twisting it in midair so the legs were aimed at the window. This time I was marginally more successful; a few pieces of glass fell away, in the alley and in the basement, and I could see that part of the wiring had become dislodged from the frame, having rusted away over time.

My arm was going to give out any second. I had one last chance, and if this didn't work, I wouldn't have the energy to try anything else except lay on the floor, bleeding, until either Crane came back and saw my pathetic attempts to escape or I died. But if I got out, I'd have access to a first aid kit at my apartment, and I could easily patch myself up in time, provided I wasn't too far away.

A new determination welled up inside me, and I pictured my mother's face as vividly as I could, remembered her voice with a clarity that I knew would never fade.

_Mother in heaven, give me the strength to do this. Just one more time. _

I raised the chair.

_SMASH! _

One of the legs broke completely through the top right-hand corner of the glass, and I let the chair tumble loudly to the floor, nearly weeping with relief as the cold outside air brushed against my face.

_Thank you._

A few more hits with the flat of my good arm broke the window enough to get at the wiring inside, and I bent it back as far as the remaining glass would allow. In the span of a minute, I had a hole big enough to wedge my body through, but the fragments of metal from the wiring as well as the remaining shards of the windowpane would make it tricky. I'd have to maneuver very, very carefully to avoid becoming more injured than I already was, all the while sheltering my now-useless right arm.

But I'd take a few scrapes and cuts over being stuck here and running the risk of bleeding to death any day. I studiously ignored the voice in my head reminding me that Crane had essentially warned me not to do anything "stupid" for that specific reason; he'd predicted my admittedly remarkable ability to do serious damage to myself when trying to escape sticky situations.

_Desperate people and drastic measures almost always go hand-in-hand. _

I braced my hands against the window's edge, trying to avoid the glass, and hoisted myself up, my lower body dangling only briefly against the wall behind me before I kicked back against the chair I'd been standing on. It toppled and I used the momentum to slide myself further through the opening. I could already feel the sting of several cuts along my body and face, feel the cold winter wind kiss my skin through newly-made holes in my clothing. I was nearly there.

_Just a bit more..._

I clawed at the ground in front of me with my good arm, praying and cursing and thrashing like a hooked fish, and finally managed to get my entire body clear of the window.

I was out.

For a brief, near-disbelieving moment, all I could do was lie on my back on the asphalt and breathe, reveling in my freedom.

_How's that for liberation? Eat your heart out, Bane. _

I landed a few more kicks to the window for good measure, breaking the glass further and scattering the shards across the interior of the basement, and got to my feet. As I did, cradling my injured arm to my chest, I caught a glimpse of several familiar buildings and gave a quiet whoop of glee. I wasn't too far from our base, or my apartment for that matter.

_Hold on guys, I'm on my way. And the first thing I'll do is take care of our mole problem. _

The vials felt heavy in my pocket as I left the alleyway.

I did not look back.

**~DKR~**

_I'm not gonna die in here. _

It had become Bruce Wayne's mantra lately as he worked and pushed and strengthened his battered body, and it was, for now, the only truth that mattered.

In the beginning, the pain had been almost unbearable, shooting icy lines of white fire up and along his spine, burning more and more fiercely with each beat of his pulse. His head had spun, and he could swear he saw Ra's Al Ghul standing before him more than once, his face triumphant and satisfied.

But none of it was anything compared to what he knew deserved for allowing himself to be in this position. His city was burning, possibly worlds away, and he was _here,_ in this godforsaken hole in the ground.

He deserved death, he _wanted_ death, and, eventually, he knew it would come.

_But I'm not gonna die in here._

"Why build yourself?" The doctor who had helped him in the beginning inquired, sitting back and watching him with an almost amused expression as he pushed off the ground and lowered himself again, taxing his injured body to the limit.

"I'm not gonna die in here." the words rolled off his tongue without thought or effort. It echoed like the slam of a gavel, like the determination of a man's sentence, and it constantly consumed his mind, wiping out everything that didn't involve his escape. Speaking it aloud only made it real, made it solid, nearly tangible in its rightness.

"Here, there, what's the difference?" The doctor replied lazily, having long since been resigned to his fate. He _would_ die in here, there hadn't been a question of that for quite some time.

But the difference was _everything_. The difference was Rachel and his parents and all those who had died and were dying because he wasn't there to help them. If he died there, it would mean there had at least been a chance; there had at least been hope.

_I'm not gonna die in here. _

When the time came, he slung his bag of supplies across his body and left his cell, his blood and brain humming with a single-minded determination. He was close; healing had been the first major hurdle and he had cleared it, albeit much slower than he would have liked, but now it was time to rise up and escape this place.

The rope was tied around his body, and he was climbing almost before he could think. His fingers found handholds in impossible places, dust falling in his eyes. His entire body hurt, his back was nearly numb with pain.

But still he rose.

And then he was standing on the ledge, the one he had seen the first man plummet from lifetimes ago and had broken his back with an audible snap.

Below him, they were chanting something. He didn't know what it meant, and at that moment, he didn't care, because he was escaping as the child had and he _jumped_ –

_I'm not gonna die in here._

And then he was falling and there was pain, such pain in his back as the rope pulled taught, but the roar in his mind was one of fury and failure and the smallest twinges of fear, and that was more painful than anything.

**~DKR~**

I could tell before I reached the base that it was empty. There were no scouts that I could see or hear anywhere nearby, and the block was unnaturally quiet. I entered the factory cautiously, the pain from my cuts and shoulder quickly catching up to me. I was losing a lot of blood and shaking from the cold, but I didn't have time to focus on it. My rebels came first.

There were no signs of a struggle, chaos, or bloodstains inside the factory, no sign that anyone had been here at all. So what did that mean? Surely Crane would have heard if they'd been captured, and surely he would have wasted no time in tormenting me with the information if it had been true.

Right?

Of course, I also wouldn't put it past him to _not_ tell me, to allow me to parade around with misguided confidence until he found the perfect moment to place the final nail in my coffin.

I looked around for something, anything, to give me a clue what had happened.

_There._

There was something written in white on the stand where the planning table had been. Carefully, listening for any sign this was a trap, I made my way over to it.

When I finally got close enough to see what was scrawled across the surface of the platform I nearly collapsed with relief; it was a half note written in chalk, the tail end facing south. The meaning was clear: they were fine and had moved to a base in the direction the note was pointing. My lieutenants and I had decided on this code a while back, once we first started taking on members. An eighth note meant they had scattered and that it wasn't safe to regroup, a quarter note meant they had disbanded entirely and given up, and a whole note meant capture and/or a trap. We'd decided on that one because it was the easiest to draw in a hurry.

A series of painful coughs that felt like knives driving into my chest overtook me, and I doubled over in agony. Regrettably, this gave me an eyeful of just how awful of a shape I was in. For the most part, there was blood, and a lot of it. I had cut myself up pretty badly on that window earlier, and I was covered in lacerations of varying depth from head to toe.

And they hurt_._

A lot.

I grimaced, my head spinning from blood loss and pounding with a migraine at the same time, and I sneezed.

_Alright, apartment first, Young after. Annoying, but unavoidable._

With a sigh, I turned and left the former factory, hoping there was still time for me to make it to my apartment before I passed out.

But with the way my day was going, I seriously wasn't counting on it.

**~DKR~**

I was shaking and coughing uncontrollably by the time I made it back to my apartment, and I had never been so glad to see anything in my entire life. The thought of caring for my injuries next to a heated generator nearly made my mouth water, and I quickened my pace as much as I could.

The fire escape looked daunting in its height from all the way down here, but I pushed through the pain and climbed as fast as possible, eager to be home. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until now, but my instruments and the musical scores covering every inch of my walls would be wonderful to see. It was my own space, and I was comforted by the fact that I was the only person around.

With a sigh that was almost contented, I stepped gingerly over the tripwire I'd installed on the fire escape, the first of many booby traps I planned to set up around my apartment. This particular trap was connected to the already loose screws of the stairway, so if you triggered it, the entire thing would collapse. Risky, but it satisfied my paranoia so it was alright with me.

That's when I heard it.

A sound like something hitting a set of cymbals inside my apartment reached my ears from where I was standing a floor below my bedroom window, one I always left open to allow for easier access. The sounds of muttered curses followed, too quietly for me to be able to tell whether or not I could recognize the voice, and _this_ was followed by a sneeze of all things. One thing was for sure, it wasn't Savvy, the only person who knew about this place, which meant I had an intruder.

_This has _really_ not been my week. _

Moving quickly and stifling another round of coughs, I balled my fists and climbed up the next flight of stairs, my boots making no sound on the metal surface beneath me. The barest traces of footsteps on carpet reached my ears from inside, but whoever was in there didn't seem to be finding what he or she was looking for.

I counted this as a good thing and quietly ducked into my room. After a cursory glance to make sure my mother's violin was still in its place, I darted to the far wall and slid along it to the doorway, peering out cautiously.

_Not in the living room then. _

That left the kitchenette, the (basically worthless, no running water, remember?) bathroom, and the spare room I used to store all of my instruments. I was pretty much just hoping whoever it was wasn't messing with or trying to steal anything incredibly vital to my composing.

_Yeah, because _that's_ my biggest problem at the moment, _I thought sarcastically, looking down at the clothes that were becoming increasingly more stained with blood. I needed to take care of this guy, and fast.

Quickly, I left my bedroom and crossed through the living room, craning my neck to peer into the kitchen. No one there, and there was literally nothing of importance in my bathroom, which left only one place aside from the hall closet.

The music room.

_Just my luck. _

Faraway footsteps confirmed my theory, and I swept up a spare baton from the counter before heading cautiously towards the sound. Whoever it was, it wasn't a Goon, because they were notoriously heavy walkers in those huge boots they wore.

A sudden thought made me stop and press myself against the corridor wall.

_What if it's Matchstick snooping around? What if she found this place?_ _Worse, what if she told someone?_

I felt the vials on my pocket, seeming to weigh tons all of a sudden, and suddenly wished they were as potent in liquid form as they were in gas.

I clenched my hands tighter around the baton, banishing the thought, and slunk farther down the hall. The string of a guitar, one of my acoustics, was idly plucked, and tensed at the thought of someone coming in here and violating my seclusion this way.

I was at the doorway.

_Now or never. _

With another quick prayer to my mother and a silent acknowledgment of how much this was going to hurt, I whirled into the room and sprang at the intruder.

**~DKR~**

John Blake sighed as he looked up at the tall, dilapidated apartment complex that had been condemned for as long as he could remember. It stood alone, invisible, and yet proud in its seclusion, much like the single tenant it had housed.

He seemed to recall it being a rather nice complex in its time; the rooms were supposedly small, but cozy, and affordable for those with an honest living and poor income. However, this area had once been owned by the Wayne Incorporation, and after Thomas and Martha Wayne had died and the board took control, funds were relocated and several buildings like this one had been shut down, the tenants evicted into a far worse part of the Narrows. Even when Bruce Wayne had returned and regained a semblance of control over his company, he hadn't shown a great amount of interest in restarting the project.

Then again, considering everything else that had been going on at the time, Blake didn't really blame him.

It had been difficult to get Savvy to talk about where Maestro stayed, and even harder to meet her questioning stare and answer _why_, exactly, he wanted to know. He didn't have a direct answer to give her, honestly, he just knew that he had to see what this girl was, what drove her, and how she'd survived on her own for who knew how many years. Scout knew next to nothing and likely wouldn't tell him if she did, Jazz simply glared at him with disdain when he tried to ask, and only Savvy seemed to have any sort of interest in helping him at all. The answer he'd given her, however, had been fairly different from the one he had just given himself.

"I want to see if I can find anything about her connections with Crane," he'd explained, playing the detective, "she made a comment a few days ago that makes me think they have a history, and maybe I can find something about his whereabouts if I know what I'm looking for." It was a long shot, and an almost ridiculous suggestion, but he'd realized as he'd said it that it couldn't hurt to try. The look on Savvy's face had also lead him believe they _did_ have a history, and even if she didn't know all the details she knew it wasn't a pleasant one.

With a guy like Crane, it wasn't hard to imagine why.

It had taken some pressing, but finally she'd written down an address, one he'd briefly thought was a joke, and handed it to him.

"I've never seen the inside," she'd said, her dark eyes blinking at him from behind a mask she was never meant to wear, "but I do know Maestro, and if you touch anything, she'll know about it and probably snap your neck."

"You're telling me she lives here? I know this address, it's been abandoned for years." he had protested, thinking she was sending him off on a wild goose chase.

Even with the mask, the sheer amusement on her face had been easy to read.

"Can you honestly picture Maestro paying rent or having neighbors? She likes the privacy."

And then it had made sense.

Now, as he stared up at the building that loomed like a storm cloud above him, it made even more sense, because this, he thought, had the rebel composer's taste written all over it.

She was completely alone, and it seemed to make her perfectly content.

With another sigh, he entered the front door to the lobby of the complex, which was hanging half off its hinges, and made for a staircase that stank of urine and trash. However, it wasn't any worse than a sewer, where the majority of his colleagues were now imprisoned and had been for quite some time, so he merely held his breath and continued on without complaint.

Her apartment was located on the top floor of the five-story building in the very last room on the right, further evidence of her desire for solitude. He double-checked the address in his hand to make certain it was correct before quietly turning the door handle.

It didn't give.

_Locked. _

With a mumbled curse, he tried again, knowing it wouldn't work.

_Well then, Plan B. _

A quick search of a bathroom in the open apartment next door gave him a pair of hairpins, and he picked the lock with ease. It was a trick every foster and street kid knew; when people locked up something you wanted, like food or money, you had to learn how to get it yourself. He didn't doubt for a moment Maestro had the same trait imbedded into her.

The door swung open and he entered cautiously, instantly taking in the walls that were lined with musical scores from top to bottom, most of which looked to be of her own composition. A small smile touched his lips; he'd heard wonderful things about the melodies she created; someday he hoped to be able to hear one himself.

The living room housed several stacks of blank score sheets sometimes reaching three feet tall, a mic stand or two, a set of cymbals, an old, ratty couch, and several snakelike black cords strewn all over the place that looked as though they hooked up to amps. There was nothing of use in here, so he moved past the living room and into her bedroom.

The only instrument in here was a violin that looked to be very old and very expensive that rested in the far corner. On the desk were a few scoring sheets that were half filled in, several candles of varying heights, and, to his surprise, many books. Along the side wall, directly next to the open window, was a small cot that didn't look as though anyone had slept in it for quite a while, and if they had it hadn't been for very long. The thought concerned him, though he knew it probably shouldn't. Above her bed was an old, faded poster for a broadway showing of _Phantom of the Opera_, and he wondered if she'd actually gotten to see it or if she had acquired this another way. The sight of it made him smile.

_She probably relates herself to the Phantom. _

But except for a few cardboard boxes that held her clothes, there wasn't much else to the room.

He made a small noise of frustration. Didn't this woman have anything personal besides a _poster_? The only remotely homey thing about this space was the violin, and somehow that seemed too timeless, too intimate for him to examine.

With yet another sigh, he turned and exited the room. Or at least, he tried to. One of the black cords in the living room caught his foot, and he tripped, flailing wildly before knocking a mic stand into the set of cymbals as the noise rang through the apartment.

He cursed as he caught himself on the couch, and then sneezed as the dust flew into his nose.

_Smooth, Detective. _

His face heated, though there was no one to see his blunder, and he quickly righted the mic stand and the cymbals before moving on. The kitchenette was bare save for a few of her batons, (he'd decided to look through the drawers later on) and the bathroom was completely empty, the mirror above the sink shattered into fragments that had been dispersed across the sink and floor.

The sight of it saddened him, somehow, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly why.

Once he left the bathroom, he checked the hall closet, (entirely empty) and moved to the last unopened door in the apartment. He prayed this one would reveal more.

Apparently someone heard him, because as he crossed the threshold, for a moment he could do nothing but gape. The room was filled with instruments, (were those _bagpipes?_) the desk along the wall to his right was organized and filled with baubles and pictures and sheet music, and what little bit of the walls he could see beneath the playbills, posters, and music scores were painted a light, cheery blue.

Unable to resist, he raised a hand and plucked the string of a nearby acoustic guitar that appeared to be very well taken care of; they all did. The twang echoed through the room, and he smiled lightly. It was just as he'd guessed; the instrument was perfectly in tune.

A window on the far wall, cleaned of grime, faced the cityscape, gleaming proudly even during this dire situation, and the light that streamed in illuminated a massive bat that had been painted on the ceiling, composed entirely of music notes.

He was standing in a room that must have taken hours to get exactly right, a room that must have mirrored something she'd either had or wished for in her childhood. He'd found the personal side of The Maestro, and it relieved him incredibly.

And then there was a loud cry from behind him and he felt a body collide with his own before he even had time to go for his gun.

Survival instincts kicking into high gear, he turned mid-fall and made to slam his elbow into his attacker's temple, but whoever it was recoiled too quickly for the strike to make contact. Instead, he landed on his back, the assailant straddling his chest and pressed something wooden against his throat harshly, their knee on his wrist to prevent him from reaching for his weapon.

And then he caught sight of the blonde hair and bottomless black eyes, and he stopped struggling immediately.

"_Maestro?_"

**~DKR~**

_Gone. _

The girl was gone.

Crane only caught the barest glimpse of the basement before Scarecrow came soaring into control in a wave of fury, expletives leaving his mouth at a pace that would have made a battle-hardened soldier cringe as he toppled the table his captive had obviously used to make her escape.

_We underestimated her,_ he tried to placate before his other half destroyed what was left of his basement in a rage.

_**Speak for yourself,** _Scarecrow hissed, _**I was all for keeping her chained to that bed and writhing in fear, but no, you were so **_**sure**_** you had weakened her-**_

_I _did_ weaken her._ _We had her where we wanted her. The combination of everything should have rendered her immobile. _Crane snapped back, irritated with his miscalculation and unwilling to concede that he had been wrong, because he _wasn't_.

_**That's what you said the last time!** _

_It was just as true then as it is now. The fact remains that she is stronger than we, and possibly she herself, could have guessed. Desperation is also a factor; she's deluded herself into believing she has something to live for. Just look at the window. She willingly allows herself further injury in order to get back to her brats. _

It was true; there was a significant amount of blood on the broken glass and he wondered, briefly, if he should be concerned, before blinking the thought away because it bore zero relevance to anything. Her loss meant the loss of a test subject and nothing more, and the reason it was so annoying was because she was one of the most valuable and enlightening ones he'd ever had.

_**Don't forget her scream, Johnny.**_

There was also that.

He had searched for years to find one to match it after that night, the scream of one who was lost and afraid and in pain, the pitch and fear intermingling to make a heady rush of something more intoxicating than any drug or stimulant could ever be.

_**I think you've got a crush.**_

Crane took advantage of Scarecrow's cooling temper and wrestled control away from his counterpart. That was happening entirely too often for him to be comfortable nowadays, and it was almost always because of _her_. She literally brought out the worst in him.

He had a sarcastic reply ready to fire back at his other half when something on the cot attracted his attention. It was a simple slip of paper resting in the exact spot she'd been in when he'd left, and he quickly strode from his place at the window to retrieve it.

It would be just like her, in her mad haste to escape, to actually take time to taunt him. But where had she gotten a pen? Writing utensils could be used just as effectively as a knife, and he'd made certain to keep all remotely sharp objects locked away in a drawer (a pen to the throat was not something he was willing to risk). In fact, it was the same drawer where he'd placed her...

_No._

He darted into the kitchenette and saw that his fears had been confirmed; she'd snooped before she'd left, and her mask was gone. He swore.

_I was so close to her... I had the girl behind the mask in my hands... That's going to complicate everything. _

With a growl (he wasn't quite sure at this point whether it came from Scarecrow or himself) he opened the note clenched in his fist.

_Interesting fact: Aside from making beautiful music, did you know that Songbirds can also fly?  
__Proven fact: They use this ability to escape from psycho creeps with dual personalities. Who knew, right?  
__P.S. Do give my love to Scarecrow, won't you, and try not to pine away for me in my absence. Bane needs his favorite lackey operating in top condition, after all.  
__Thanks for the toxin,  
__~M._

Barbs aside, the note puzzled him. He had been expecting the general sarcastic tone of the letter before he'd read it, but the last part made him furrow his brow. Everything in it was meant to be a direct insult, and yet her parting phrase did not make sense. Why would she thank him for testing his toxin on her?

And then he noticed just what kind of paper the note was written _on_, and everything snapped into place. He swore again, more violently than last time.

_**That little rat! I'll drag her screaming to her grave!**_

Scarecrow's roar echoed in his ears as he all but sprinted into the room where he kept his lab, noticing the lack of his notebook immediately, as well as the vials of toxin and antitoxin he'd used on her.

Curses left his lips one after another as he knocked aside the heart monitor he'd had hooked to her chest a few days ago, pacing twice before running his hands through his hair. That wasn't his only notebook, he hadn't been _that_ stupid, thank heaven, but it was the only one that had recorded the details on this new batch of toxin he'd been perfecting, as well as the effects it had had on Maestro and the notes on her scream.

He _needed_ that notebook.

_She looked half-dead when I left her... Her wound had been exacerbated, she was under incredible emotional stress, and looked to have the beginnings of pneumonia. _How_ is this possible? She should have been incredibly weak..._

He grimaced as her voice sprang, unbidden, into his mind.

"_I got news for ya, Doc, anybody who's made that assumption pretty much ever has wound up regretting it."_

He was, much to his own annoyance, starting to see why.

_**We have to go find her. We'll drag her back by her hair until she's begging us to stop, and then we can make her scream until her throat bleeds and she drowns in it...**_

_No. _

Crane's response surprised even himself as a series of clicks went off in his head. He was drawn to her because of the impact she'd had on their intertwined pasts; her scream had marked him. She was undoubtedly drawn to him for the same reason; she may have been normal before his Fear Night, but the Maestro had been created as a direct result of it. She would need him now that she'd made contact with him, because he reminded her of why she had begun her sad little quest in the first place, and he needed her because she was the original test subject; his first major success after he'd created his toxin.

Which meant...

He smiled quietly and set about to righting the basement.

Which meant she would come to him.

**A/N: Dun dun dun! (Anyone catch the Red Eye reference, btw?) And yes, Blake is nosy. :) **

**For those of you waiting for it, there will be loads of fluffy stuff next chapter. Hope you enjoyed!**

**On a side note, I've been looking back through previous chapters and noticing mistakes that set my teeth on edge. My Beta truly does an incredible job, and most of the mistakes are me stupidly going back and adding details after she Betas the crap out of the first draft and then posting it without filtering it through her again. So I'm going to attempt to not do that anymore, and once the story is finished (calm down, it won't be for a while yet) I'll go back and fix the little mistakes you guys have been so kind not to comment on. :) **

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Cage on the Ground" by Flyleaf. **

**Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story,** Amai-chan1993**, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! She's so cool. :) **

**A special thanks also to (deep breath): **takara410**, **QuirkyRandomChika**, **WarriorDragonElf54**, **PolyjuicePrincess**, **MockingjayWolf**, **Eva Sirico**, **Meg**, **Katherine**, **DeathstrokeTerminator**, **MyDarkeGuardianAngel**, **the random bat**, **ElfinCleona**, **Chocoholics Unite**, **BlueWillow29**, and ****especially to **Jacqulyn** for your lovely and kind reviews! Thank you also to those who fav'd or alerted. You guys rock my socks. **

**Don't forget to leave a review! It would seriously make my life. :)**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	13. The Truce

**For Your Entertainment**

_Baby I've been here before_

_I've seen this room and I've walked this floor_

_I used to live alone before I knew you_

_I've seen your flag on the marble arch_

_But love is not a victory march_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah..._

_Well, maybe there's a god above_

_But all I've ever learned from love_

_Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you_

_It's not a cry that you hear at night_

_It's not somebody who's seen the light_

_It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah_

_Chapter XII_

_The Truce_

"_Maestro?_"

John Blake was here, in my apartment, and I was pinning him to the floor.

_What?_

The realization hit me like a ton of freaking bricks, and I froze completely.

_How could he have known...? Oh._

I was going to _kill_ Savvy.

Chest heaving from exertion and the pain that coursed through my body now that the adrenaline had worn off, I climbed off of him and backed as far away as I could, my skin burning from where it had, however briefly, come into contact with his.

For a moment, neither of us spoke as he picked himself off the ground, looking at me like I was a dangerous, cornered animal that had escaped from the zoo, one he didn't know how to approach without running the risk of enraging it.

"Maestro, what – ?"

A series of coughs suddenly wracked my body, and I hissed in pain as the action caused me to double over and pull on my many cuts. The baton slipped from my fingers, but I hardly noticed through the distraction.

Blake moved to help me, but I recoiled from his grasp. I didn't have time for questions or whatever it was he wanted, I was losing too much blood, and I _certainly_ didn't want him touching me.

"Get out." I rasped, my throat still hoarse.

"Maestro, I-"

"Get _out_." I turned away, every step jarring my many wounds. He had invaded my sanctum, the one part of me no one had ever seen, the one place that held proof that I was still human. No one was supposed to know this existed and I hated him for seeing it.

"What happened? How did you get away?" Blake called from behind me as I limped into the hallway.

I didn't turn around, hoping my dismissiveness would encourage him to leave faster.

"I flew out a window." The sarcasm in my tone was hard to miss, even if it was partially true. Still, it wasn't like he knew that.

"You need help, Maestro. Let me-"

I whirled on him suddenly, stopping him in his tracks from where he had been pursuing me down the corridor. We were only a breath apart and the eyes that locked with my own were so familiarly _blue_...

_They are the eyes of someone who has mastered fear and brought it to heel; the eyes of someone who is no longer human. A deep, wicked laugh cuts the air and the blood runs in rivers along the pavement..._

Shaking myself from my momentary distraction, I glowered at him.

"What I _need_ is for you to leave. I escaped on my own, I can patch myself up on my own. I'm not gonna tell you again. _Get_. _Out_."

Now, he knew I was serious.

Now, he knew I was capable of taking care of myself.

Now, a sudden rush of vertigo sent me reeling and forced me to brace myself against the wall.

_Great. _

Instantly, I felt warm hands surround my waist, tenderly supporting me and mindful of the wounds there.

"Not a chance. You can barely stand."

"I'm fine."

"No you aren't, Maestro! Just let me help you!" he was exasperated now.

My head was pounding and I was angry, so angry and cold and my body ached and I just wanted to sleep already and why couldn't he leave me alone?

"I don't _want_ your help!" I spat, struggling to get away from him. His touch set my nerves on fire, made me aware of everything and nothing and I didn't _understand_ –

_For a moment, the girl stands transfixed in his gaze, and what need has she of an angel when the specter before her could _command_ angels if he so desired? _

Blake spun me to face him and shook me lightly, frustration clear in his expression as I was roughly jerked from my mental wanderings.

"Why? Why is this so hard for you? Why would you rather _drop dead_ than trust someone?"

"_Because there's a catch!_" I all but shrieked, wrenching away from him and pressing against the opposite wall. My legs instantly buckled and gave out beneath me, weak as I was from blood loss, and I sank against the floor.

"There's always a catch," I repeated, quieter now, as another round of coughs left my chest aching, "there's always a catch or a trick or a scheme... People don't help other people just because they can, Blake. That's not the way the world works. It's better not to trust, to just fix it yourself."

He looked down at me then with so much pain in his eyes. He knew exactly what I meant, even if he didn't believe it anymore, because with a past like his, he _had_ at some point.

"What about the Batman, then? What's his scheme?"

I glanced up at him sharply from where I had been staring at my knees.

"He's different. He's_ been there_, Blake. He's just like us. Whoever he is underneath that mask, it's someone who's been betrayed and abandoned _just like us_. Don't you get it? _That's_ why he can be trusted, because he knows what it means to _need_ to trust someone and to be that person for other people. And he doesn't make idle promises, he just... _acts_, and follows through. That's why I believe in him."

There was a moment of silence following my declaration as I willed him to just go away already.

_The girl almost misses the dark angel's question about her name as he carries her, his gait sure and steady and his arms strong as he holds her trembling form tightly to his chest, the wings around her keeping her safe. _

_He cares. He cares and it blows her mind, because who is she, that this angel should carry her from the misery of her mother's blood to security? Who is she to weep against the wings of an angel, lamenting in a loss that affects only her? _

_She looks up at him, and that feeling comes back, the one that tells her he knows exactly what she's going through and he's helping her because of it. He cares. He cares and he wants to help, and she does not understand. _

Blake gently helped me up, supporting my blood-soaked frame against his body once again, and I was too exhausted to protest. My grip on reality was slipping, I could feel it the way I could feel each drop of blood leaving my body, and as it drained so did my lucidity.

"Well right now _I_ need you to trust me. You can't fix this yourself, not this time. Let me help you just this once, and I swear I will leave you alone."

I looked at him, searching his eyes for any sign of an ulterior motive. _There has to be one... there has to be... _but I found nothing.

"You're burning up. It's now or never Maestro, are you gonna let me help you or are we gonna have to do this the hard way?" Blake asked, his gaze drilling holes into me.

I was reminded of my mental promise from our last conversation.

_I'll kiss Jonathan Crane before I come to you for help._

I couldn't keep the quiet hum of laughter from leaving my lips, – irony truly is a wicked old hag – but it was quickly drowned out by another merciless round of hacking.

"Fi – _cough_ – fine. If it'll – _cough_ – get you to leave me alone."

He was guiding me down the hallway before I'd even finished speaking, helping me past the kitchen and into my bedroom with a speed that caught me off guard, though it probably shouldn't have. He was a cop in Gotham city, after all; of course he was fast. Chasing criminals that regularly was no easy feat.

He sat me down on the bed quickly, helping me out of my windbreaker – I was careful to keep him from noticing the vials and notebook concealed in the pocket – and boots before laying them carefully by the foot of my bed.

"Do you have a first aid kit?" he demanded, all business, and I nodded quietly.

"Kitchen under the sink."

"Heat source?"

"Furnace behind the couch. It's still got a little gas in it."

He nodded and left to get the items, and I cringed, head spinning.

I _hated_ this. Hated it. I hated having him here, I hated accepting his help, but most of all I hated needing it.

_When did I become so weak? As if getting kidnapped by the psychopath singularly responsible for the death of my mother and then having a breakdown in his shower wasn't bad enough, now I'm letting a rookie detective play doctor on me because he has nice eyes. I used to be an expert at avoiding situations like this. _

Moving quickly, I got up and strode to my jacket before taking out the items I had stolen from Crane and hiding them in the back of a drawer in my desk. I wasn't sure what I was planning to do with them, exactly, but the smallest machinations of an idea were forming in the back of my mind. I just hadn't fit all the pieces together yet.

_White mist fills the air and her mother has the presence of mind to tell her to hold her shirt to her nose and mouth before doing so herself. Being only twelve, the girl doesn't know what the mist is or why it's there but what she does know it's that it's terrifying, fogging the air and dimming the already flickering streetlights..._

Suddenly dizzy, I turned and walked back to the bed just as Blake re-entered the room, bearing the red box of medical supplies, a bottle of water, and lugging the furnace behind him.

"You know you have about six thousand rolls of bandages in this place, right?" he said lightly as he switched on the heat and closed my window to keep it from escaping.

"I've been stocking up for a while. Obviously," I replied, gesturing to my body, "you can never have too many."

He gave me a small smile and handed me the bottle of water, also taken from beneath my sink, and I gulped it greedily. The water would help me compensate for my blood loss.

Blake shifted on his feet a moment, seemingly uncomfortable, before meeting my eyes.

"So... how do you want to do this? I can tell you're sick, and you're covered in blood so you have some pretty serious cuts, but I need to see how bad and where."

I shot him a scathing look.

"How about this: you give me the bandages and let me take care of this myself, and if it will ease your stupid bleeding heart you can wait outside the door – with your back _turned_ – and I'll scream for help if I'm attacked by a hoard of ninjas or killer bees or fall into a coma or whatever the heck you think is going to happen."

"I don't -"

"Blake, I'm cut pretty much everywhere, okay? I've already been more exposed these past few days than I'd care to, so if you really wanna help me, you'll do what I ask." I snapped, my throat feeling so much better with the water having soothed it.

He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat and slunk outside the door, and as soon as he disappeared out of my line of sight I gingerly peeled off my shirt and pants, hissing in pain all the while. My shoulder was getting worse, I could feel it. The biting chill in the air – that stupid furnace took freaking _forever_ to heat up – raced down my skin, and with a bracing inhale I looked down at my body.

_Crap. _

I had three lacerations on my shins, another on my left knee, two more on my thighs, a whopping five on my stomach, and three on the undersides of my arms. My bullet wound was leaking blood at an almost idle pace, spurting out the precious crimson with each beat of my pulse.

And it freaking _hurt_.

Biting back the expletives that I wanted to howl into the air, I tenderly bandaged each cut, all of which would scar, and gasped quietly in pain every time I jarred my injured shoulder. Outside the room, I could hear Blake pacing around, sounding almost restless in his movement.

I rolled my eyes as I rummaged through my boxes of clothing for something that wouldn't cling too much. Unfortunately, loose clothes were usually a liability, so most, if not all, of what I owned was form-fitting. Grimacing, I pulled on a pair of jeans and fresh socks, deciding to take care of my shoulder before choosing a shirt. However, the wound would need to be cleaned first, which was going to suck.

I crouched down on the floor, studying the contents of the kit skeptically.

_Might as well get it over with. _

Using my right arm as little as possible, I reached up and undid the soaked bandage around the wound, hissing in pain once again as the air hit it. The bruising around it looked somehow worse than it did in the shower this morning, which was saying a lot.

_It's getting worse, not better. Just my luck. _

Without hesitating further, I grabbed a small bottle of peroxide and poured some on a scrap of bandage, before gingerly pressing it against my shoulder.

Instantly, there was an explosion of pain that rocketed all the way down my arm and then the length of my spine for good measure, not so much from the cleaning itself – though judging by the way my blood was foaming, that wasn't going so well either – but from the miniscule amount of pressure I had just applied. I couldn't stifle my cry of pain, and Blake entered the room immediately, kneeling down to my level.

"Here... here let me."

"I don't-"

"Maestro, if you finish that sentence with 'need your help', I swear I'll knock you unconscious just so this gets done."

"You charmer. I bet you say that to all the girls." I gasped, unable to resist the quip despite the pain clouding my vision.

He ignored me and tenderly braced one hand on my good shoulder before taking the peroxide-soaked bandage from my hand. With a quiet apology, he pressed it gently against my wound.

I cursed and let out a hiss of pain, but he didn't stop, and I didn't want him to. Strangely, I found myself glad _he_ was doing it, because I wouldn't have been able to keep on, not with how badly it hurt. I leaned into him, biting my lip and bracing my forehead against his shoulder – against the pain – and wished for it to be over already. Blake held me tighter after a moment's hesitation, encouraging me further to accept his help, and I really, truly hated him for it.

_HatethishatethishatethishatethisHATETHIS... _

And then the pain was less like stabbing knives and more like being occasionally punched as he quickly bandaged my shoulder, tying it off tightly. I could still smell the blood, I could still see it on my hands, and for a moment I was back in the dream Crane had given me.

_I was kneeling in a pool of my mother's blood in that cursed alleyway, staring down at her still face. Her cold eyes were riveted to mine, accusing, blaming, _judging_ me and my cowardice for her death. _

_It was my fault._

"You alright?" Blake inquired suddenly, his eyes full of concern and I didn't understand _why_ –

"Fine," I replied shakily, reaching to put on a simple black t-shirt and swearing again when the trembling of my fingertips made the movement clumsy and practically impossible.

I felt warm hands close over mine as he helped me once again, guiding the sleeve of the garment gently over my arms. This only made my trembling worse, but for entirely different reasons.

_He smells nice..._

Quickly, I pulled my head through the opening at the top and tugged the material over my bandaged waist, not missing the way his eyes hardened at the sight of the rest of my wounds.

"Maestro, what _happened_ to you?" he breathed, sounding sickened.

I sighed, my head beginning to pound as he helped me gently to my feet and over to my bed. I was too exhausted to respond with anything but the truth.

"There _may_ have been a broken window involved in my escape."

"Your shoulder was bleeding pretty badly too. How-?"

"The lifting of a heavy chair might have been involved in the _breaking_ of said window, which _might_ have reopened an otherwise closing gunshot wound."

He stared at me a moment, then wisely decided not to comment as he helped me lay back against the mattress. I read the look in his eyes loud and clear, however, and I knew that it meant we weren't finished with the conversation.

"Do you have anything for the pain?" he asked instead, and I placed my good arm over my eyes and tried to relax.

"I keep some tylenol in the kit."

I heard him rummaging around a moment, and then the shaking of a bottle as he poured out the medication.

"Here."

I sat up briefly to take it, downing a sip of water a moment later, and found myself once again under his quizzical stare.

"What?" I snapped, irritated at my sudden self-consciousness, "You wouldn't look so great either if you'd had to claw your way to freedom through shards of glass."

He had the decency to look slightly abashed, at least.

"No! No, that's not – You look fine... I mean, you just look like you have a fever, under the mask, I mean. That's all." he had the oddest look on his face all of a sudden, and wouldn't look directly at me. Was he... _blushing?_

_Ooooh-_kay_..._

I flopped back against the mattress gracelessly, my snark-o-meter briefly depleted.

"Wouldn't surprise me. I probably have pneumonia."

"Because you fell through the ice?"

"Yeah. I had hypothermia at first, at least that's what Crane-" I stopped abruptly and looked away, cursing mentally.

_Crap. Don't ask, don't ask, don't ask, _please_ don't ask..._

"What did he do to you?" Blake asked softly, eyes full of hate for the man who had supposedly put me in this condition.

_The fear was tearing at my mind, splitting my soul, because it wasn't just fear anymore. It was pain, it was anguish, it was guilt and it was hatred, and it was manifesting itself through my shrieking..._

I let out a bitter laugh.

_You know _nothing_ of hate. _

"Please, as if that pathetic excuse for a human being would be able to harm _me_." The lie was awkward and tasted like betrayal on my tongue, because he _had_ been able to hurt me, all this week and years before. And the scary part? It had taken me eight years to _begin_ to heal from what had happened the night my mother died, and I'd been forced to relive it every time I'd locked eyes with Crane these last few days. I knew, the same way I knew the Batman would return, that there would be no recovery for me this time.

"You want to sleep?" Blake inquired, possibly seeing my internal fear and wisely not pressing the issue.

"That would be stupendous." A part of me knew I needed to ask about Savvy and Jazz and Scout and what was happening with my Young, and the weight of the pendant around my neck was a constant reminder, but at the moment I was so exhausted...

___Stitches' dying cry splits the air, and Matchstick looks on in sheer amusement from behind Bane..._

I stiffened and jerked up, ignoring the pain in my limbs; how could I have forgotten that?

"Blake, it was Matchstick, Matchstick was the one who told them where I would be! You have to warn –"

Blake held up his hands in a calming gesture, placing them on my shoulders to make me lie back again.

"Relax. Your lieutenants figured it out. Gordon's got her locked away."

I went limp, tears of relief that I would _never_ let him see springing, unbidden, to my eyes.

___Safe. They're safe._

"Right now, you need to sleep. We'll sort everything out once you've rested, okay?" he asked, and I didn't have the energy to tell him to just leave already, because the feeling of the mattress beneath me and the warmth of the furnace as it – _finally_ – began to fully permeate the room made me relax completely, the terrors of the past few days briefly melting away.

I succumbed to the welcoming darkness in seconds.

**~DKR~**

_Fire._

_Fire and blue, blue eyes, and his voice sounds like the whisper of a death sentence and rings through the darkness like tarnished silver - _

"_**Did you really think it would be that easy to escape me, Songbird?"** I spin, trying to find the origin of the voice, but it's not there – _

_Blood and worms and white mist that rises like a thousand dead souls to the sky, taking sanity and safety with them, and there are no angels here and _why can't I breathe?

"_**You'll scream for me again, Songbird, so try not to get too comfortable."** The voice echoes through the darkness but still there is no speaker to be seen._

_The alleyway around me is empty, but my shoes squelch in the blood that pools at my feet and slowly rises past my ankles, and the smell of it makes me choke. _

"_**Did you hear me, Songbird? I'll come back for you. The Bat can't save you now."**_

My angel_... I can't find him, I can't hear the rustle of his wings above the screams that tear at my ears and I'm afraid, so afraid... _

_The shriek of my mother as she calls my name, the whinny of a horse that I know breathes fire, the gravelly roar of a voice that was human once but not anymore._

_And then fire turns to ice and blood turns to hands that reach up, up, up, to grab my legs and pull me down into their gruesome embrace, and every single one of them bears my mother's ring._

_My scream is drowned out by his laughter. _

**~DKR~**

With a shuddering jerk, I awoke, as though all the air had suddenly rushed back into my body.

_Still alive, good. My day is already looking up._

I could tell it had been several hours since I'd drifted off by the grogginess that seemed to have seeped into my very bones and the way the lighting through my window had dimmed significantly; night had fallen. I frowned slightly and rubbed my eyes beneath my mask. I supposed it was a combination of my illness, the tylenol, and blood loss, but I was still unused to the feeling of being fully rested and it unsettled me, somehow.

With a pained grimace, I sat up, releasing a quiet cough, and strained my ears to listen.

Nothing.

_Can it be? _

I shifted to put my feet on the ground, hardly daring to hope as I listened further, but still no noise issued from anywhere in my apartment.

Blake was gone.

I couldn't stop the grin that reached my face, but it felt... _forced_, somehow, which was ridiculous because _I was not disappointed_. At all. Nor did I want him here, traipsing about my apartment and acting so concerned.

Really, I didn't.

With a hiss of pain and a grimace, I stood hesitantly, encouraged when I didn't break out in a full body rash or develop a sudden, terminal cancer.

_With the way my week's been going, I honestly wouldn't be surprised._

Carefully, I made my way to my boots and slipped them on, before exiting the room and heading into the kitchen, where I lit several candles and systematically switched on the battery-powered lanterns. I was hungry, which was kind of surprising, and I really, really needed more water.

Peeling off my mask, I tossed it onto the counter before painstakingly crouching down to rummage inside my cabinets for the non-perishable food I kept there.

_Let's see... stale potato chips, a tin of cashews, peanut butter crackers, a box of Milk Duds and a couple of Oreos. Yum_.

I withdrew a package of crackers and another bottle of water before sitting down on a stool and wolfing them down in silence. The pain in my shoulder was returning, which was annoying, but I needed to prioritize so I attempted to ignore it.

I had no idea where the new base was; that was issue number one. I cursed myself for not asking Blake when I had the chance; surely he knew. It was obvious that Savvy had made the decision to work more extensively with Gordon and his men than I had since she had allowed them to hold Matchstick, and while I was unsure how I felt about that I mentally praised her intelligence for having the foresight to move bases. Still, I only knew the general direction it was located in, and I didn't exactly have time to go searching around. I grimaced as I realized that I'd have to go ask Gordon where they were, and I was _so_ not looking forward to that conversation.

Issue number two was discovering what they'd managed to accomplish. I needed to figure out how much Gordon knew, in order to lock him out of any future plans that would be made unless it was _absolutely_ necessary, and find out what plans Savvy had implemented while I was gone in order to modify and/or build on them.

Issue three was Scout. Almost absently, I grasped the pendant hanging around my neck. I would need to talk to her. Just because I had been alone when I lost my entire world did not mean she had to be.

Issue four was to figure out whether or not The Young had managed to retrieve her sister's body, and if they had, what they had done with it. I would need to put a plan in place for future burials. No way was I letting the kids that had sacrificed everything rot in the streets. Stitches was only the beginning; now that first blood had been drawn, it was inevitable that more would follow.

By the time it was over with, my soul would be as black as Bane's.

While I was on the subject of tainted souls, the fifth issue would be the hardest.

I would have to tell The Young about the blood on my hands.

_Mother in heaven, what have I done? _

**~DKR~**

Blake shifted the grocery bag to his other hand, struggling not to jostle it too much and hold his flashlight at the same time as he made to grab the doorknob to Maestro's apartment. He frowned when he found it locked again.

_Looks like she's up. _

He glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost ten o'clock. He'd been gone for several hours, doing his rounds and getting up to speed on the next raid, which was to take place early tomorrow, and then quietly pulling Gordon aside and updating him on the situation. Scout, who was always by Gordon's side now when Savvy didn't have her out running errands, had eyed them both suspiciously from across the room.

"Do you think we should tell them?" he'd asked the commissioner, who was still reeling from the idea of Maestro's escape.

"What sort of state is she in? Does she need help?" the older man asked, to which Blake had sighed heavily. _More than you know. _

"Yes, but I've got it covered. She almost took my head off for being there; she's not too keen on company, but she's in absolutely no state to move. She needs somebody there. I'm gonna pick up some stuff for her later and then head back. She was sleeping when I left."

"You've convinced her to let you help?" This seemed to surprise him more than the fact that she'd escaped.

"Not in so many words, no. But she's in no position to be left alone. She's pretty banged up, and she's sick."

The commissioner was quiet for a moment as he appeared to weigh the options in his mind, and, after a second or two, shook his head.

"We'll keep it quiet for now. We're in the middle of planning a major raid; this would just be a distraction for the kids. Look after her when you can. What does she need?"

Blake had then proceeded to list the things he needed, keeping to the simplest forms of the items because some of it – the antibiotics, for example – were hard to get anyway, forget finding a specific brand. Gordon had managed to point him in the direction of what he'd needed, and Blake had come back here as quickly as he could, hoping to arrive before she awoke. Apparently, he hadn't been so lucky.

With another sigh, he knocked, knowing she wasn't going to answer but still annoyed when she didn't. There was no noise inside the room, but he knew she was in there, pointedly ignoring him, and he rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Setting the bag in his hand down, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the hairpins from earlier, picking the lock in record time before pushing the door open. It was a testament to just how comfortable she was here that she allowed her back to be to him as he entered; he couldn't see her doing that in any other situation.

"I see you're back to your usual cheerful self." he greeted casually upon entering, watching her stiffen in her chair at the kitchen counter.

"I'm pretty sure this is breaking and entering, Blake. Whatever would Gordon say?" she muttered, turning to face him, and he was pleased to notice that her voice didn't sound as hoarse as before. The next thing he noticed made the world slam to a halt.

It was the first time he had ever seen her without her mask.

In that moment, he could do nothing but stare, taking in every detail of her face and filing it away in case he never got to see it again. This wasn't Maestro, this was someone else, possibly the girl she had been before.

She was beautiful.

Not in the conventional sense, of course, but in a cool, calculating sort of way, one that spoke of a struggle in her past that she had yet to overcome. Her face was still closed off, and he saw no traces of anything that would suggest happiness or trust, but it didn't take away from her appearance. At the moment, her eyes were narrowed in annoyance, yet, to his surprise, they didn't seem as dark as her mask would lead everyone to believe. They were less like coal and more like obsidian: gleaming, sharp, and far more attractive. However, there was something else in them as well, a look he couldn't place and didn't know how to read, and he wondered at it.

It took him a second to recognize that she was trying to get his attention.

"The staring is getting creepy. Seriously, do I have something on my-?" she froze suddenly, her entire spine stiffening with realization, before whirling around and slamming her mask back into place so fast she was nothing but a blur.

He cleared his throat, quickly choosing to move on while trying to pretend like seeing her face _hadn't_ completely thrown him off balance.

"Uhm, I brought you some soup. And medicine."

At the mention of the latter, she whipped back around, mask firmly in place, and stared at him, looking almost horrified.

"You didn't. Tell me you didn't."

"You're welcome," he responded, irritated now and wondering why she was reacting this way, "It's just some antibiotics for the pneumonia. Why is that – ?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get those to people who actually _need_ them?" she snapped, standing up and storming over to him, her hands on her hips, "They are incredibly difficult to come by and – "

"_You_ need them too, Maestro!" he found himself snapping back, feeling strangely gratified when she silenced at his outburst and looked at him in quiet surprise, and he calmed slightly. "Now, I know you have issues with trusting other people, particularly cops, and specifically me for some reason, and that's fine, but that doesn't change the fact that you can't help those kids – not a single one – like this. Take the medicine I hunted all over Gotham to find, and eat something besides the load of crap you have in those cabinets. _Why_ is this such a hard concept for you?" he asked finally, feeling like he was making no progress whatsoever with this stubborn, unreachable woman.

Her face had gone completely blank by the time he had finished, and she turned away from him to rummage through the bag he had brought.

"There are better people out there who could use it more than me. Besides, I'm used to going without." she said simply, withdrawing the container of still-warm chicken soup he had procured for her. "Where did you get this?" she asked with an almost childish curiosity.

He reeled mentally, trying to process both what she had said, her attitude, and her sudden change of subject at the same time.

"Uh, there's a soup kitchen across town. Line's pretty long, but a friend of mine was able to get me a cup out the back. And what do you mean, _better_ people?"

There was silence as she went back to her stool, her upper half uncharacteristically relaxed as she took the medicine and quietly began to eat.

"What could you possibly have done that would keep you from deserving something as basic as a bowl of soup?" he continued. She didn't respond for a long time, so long that he thought she wasn't going to, but then her answer cut calmly through the apartment.

"I broke the Code." She could have been sipping a latte and ordering lunch at a bistro for all the concern in her voice.

He didn't understand what she was talking about, but the blankness on her face – not that he could read much with the mask on – prompted him to take a seat across from her immediately. She was avoiding his eyes and trying to appear like that wasn't what she was doing, and he raised an eyebrow a moment before it hit him.

_Ah. _

"The men we found next to your medic?"

"Yes."

"We wondered what had happened." he responded softly, never taking his eyes from her masked face.

"Well, now you know. I killed them." she stated matter-of-factly into her soup.

The silence stretched between them again as she continued eating, and he watched her hands tremble faintly as she moved the spoon to her mouth and back to the bowl again and again. He studied her, trying to figure out what he could say that would help this girl of questionable background deal with something like this. The Batman was everything to her; to have broken his one rule had to have broken her. He had to admit that, while she was doing an exceptionally good job of hiding her fear, her uncharacteristic lack of a reaction to telling him what she had done was so controlled that it was practically a reaction of its own.

He thought back to the glimpses of pictures he had seen in her music room, of a lovely, smiling blonde woman with kind blue eyes, who, now that he had seen Maestro without her mask, he could say looked exactly like the girl in front of him.

"_And you?" Blake remembered asking, "Why do you wear the mask?" _

_She'd fixed her black gaze on him for a moment, her expression momentarily unguarded. _

"_I was tired of looking in the mirror and not recognizing my own face or the person I'd become. The mask eliminates that little issue." _

"_Who were you before?" _

_Her eyes had gotten a faraway, forlorn look in them, as though she was reliving something so horrible it had physically caused the ground to shake beneath her feet._

"_I was nobody." _

She'd been on her own for a long time, that much was clear. If he was right about her past with Crane, the man had probably had something to do with that. Something clicked in his head then, and he continued to study her. He knew what that look was in her eyes now, he knew why she had reacted and killed those two men. But first, he needed to confirm his suspicions.

"The woman on the desk in there," he began, nodding towards the back room, "was that your mother?"

Her head snapped up and she met his eyes suddenly, as though his question surprised her. It probably had.

Lifetimes seemed to pass while she held him in her gaze, weighing and judging and measuring while she visibly considered her response. He kept his face as blank as hers, certain that if she saw sympathy or pity she would resent it and not say a word.

_Come on, _he silently willed her, _let me in. _

Either he passed her mental test or she really was as exhausted as she looked, because finally, hesitantly, she nodded.

"Her name was Grace."

It was his turn to be surprised. He had expected sarcasm or even silence, but not a verbal answer giving more details than he'd asked.

"What happened to her?" he asked, sensing an opportunity to break through her hard exterior and get to the woman behind the mask.

"She died." Finally, a note of emotion caught in her voice.

"Was it Crane?" he asked, watching her physically flinch at the name and close her eyes a moment, seemingly getting lost in her own head.

"Indirectly." came her vague response, her tone suggesting she was unwilling to explore that line of conversation any more.

"What was she like?" he pressed further, knowing he was standing on the very edge of a cliff, and instead of exercising caution, chose to throw himself off of it. He was so close, closer than, perhaps, anyone had ever been.

There was silence for a long moment, and he briefly thought he had pushed too far when she opened her mouth to reply.

"She smelled nice, like that cheap vanilla soap you can buy for a buck at a convenience store. I loved it." A small but genuine laugh left her lips, lacking all of its signature mocking qualities, and he couldn't help but smile along with her, "And she was a hurricane when she got going. Once she set her mind to something, she pursued it until she got it. That was the reason we could pay rent every month; she worked three jobs, one of which was a graveyard shift at a gas station downtown. She could play the violin better than anyone I knew; I'm still not as good as she was. When I'd have nightmares, she'd play some complicated piece to put me back to sleep, and it worked every time."

Blake sat forward in his chair, marveling at the new light in her eyes and wondering, just for a moment, if this excitement and love, muted though it was, was how she had been as a child.

"Everyone who met her loved her. She was light and joy and everything good, and the embodiment of, well, _grace._ Basically, she was the sole happiness of my childhood."

"You miss her." it wasn't a question.

Her face shifted into a near-agonized expression.

"_Yes_."

The pain and longing she put into that one word made his soul twist, because he knew that feeling, he knew it like he knew the world was round or that life was cruel.

There was a longer silence that stretched between them as Maestro looked past him and at the wall, no longer eating and instead disappearing in her own head again. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd gotten a chance right out of the Boy's Home, or that he knew she hadn't been so lucky. He'd barely scratched the surface of her story, but he knew how he could help her, at least here and now.

**~DKR~**

If asked what prompted me to just start talking to Blake about my mother, my most closely guarded memory, I would only shrug, because to this day I don't know. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, or the fact that he brought me soup, or that I was just so freaking exhausted and I was momentarily tired of fighting him and deflecting everything, but I found myself answering each of his questions.

_You miss her. _

Were I in a better mood, I would have ridiculed him for the obvious statement. Yes, I missed her. I wanted her back with me more than I wanted to _live_.

"Not a lot of people know what it feels like, do they?"

I snapped out of my reverie to meet his gaze once again.

"What?" I asked quietly, studying him.

"To be angry, in your bones." he spoke the words as though he'd said them before, but I hardly noticed as the entire world seemed to shift and I closed my eyes, trying not to let my emotions show on my face.

He knew. Somehow, some way, he _knew_.

Anger was as much a part of my being as blood and marrow; I carried it with me and felt it like a pinprick in every breath I took. Anger at Crane, anger at cops, at Bane, at Matchstick, at the people who wouldn't help us, at those who ridiculed the Batman, and, sometimes, even at my angel himself. I meant what I'd said to Crane; I loved him because he always came back and I knew that he would, in the same way I knew the sun would rise, but on my bad days I just wanted him to _be here_, already.

"My father died when I was a kid. He owed some guys some money and when he wouldn't pay up..." his voice trailed off and I saw the raw grief on his face, so easily concealed by a handsome smile and the endless blue of his gaze, "I saw it happen, and I remember it like it was yesterday." Blake continued, voice wavering.

_That_ I hadn't been expecting, but I knew the haunted look on his face only too well.

"You tried to help him, didn't you? You felt his blood on your hands." I stated quietly, and I watched his jaw set.

"Yeah. So did you, right?"

I nodded.

_I was wrong._ Not an admission I made often. It appeared we had more in common than we let on, however reluctant I was to admit it. He was just as broken as I was; he just managed to hide it better.

"You _do_ know something of hate, don't you?"

He looked vaguely confused at my question, but nodded just the same.

Yet another second of silence passed, and after I took a second to realize that I had successfully managed to horribly misjudge him, I smirked.

"Truce?"

He grinned, lighting up his entire face in a way that _did not_ give me adolescent butterflies, and nodded again.

"I've only been trying to call one for what, days now?"

I shot him a look.

"I still don't like you very much. Don't push your luck."

His smug expression couldn't have been wiped off his face with a mop.

"If you've truly called a truce, then let's keep talking. What was your dad like?"

I felt my gaze harden instantly as I clenched my fists beneath the table, but I wanted to give him a chance.

Maybe, just this once, I wanted to let someone in.

"He's dead. My first memory and the only one I have of him is my mother yelling at him to get out and never come back." I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "He smelled like cigarettes and beer, and I think he had this really gravelly voice. What about your mother?" I inquired. Two could play at this game.

He shrugged.

"She died when I was little. I don't remember it."

"You lived at St. Swithin's for a while, didn't you?"

He looked a little surprised that I knew, then smirked a bit.

"Scout?"

"Scout." I knew I needed to ask about her, about my rebels, but I wanted... I wanted to continue talking now that I'd found someone who understood. Blake understood, and I knew that he understood, and that made all the difference. Besides, if anything truly dreadful had happened, he'd have told me. I could ask about it later.

"What was it like? Being in a home?"

He gave a small smile.

"Crowded. You wouldn't have liked it much. It was pretty loud all the time. Then again, it _was_ all boys. How did you end up...?" he looked like he didn't know quite how to phrase the question without shutting me down, and I gave him a small smile. I was too tired to fight back right now.

"On the streets? When you grow up in the Narrows, you hear a lot of horror stories about foster homes. I wasn't willing to risk it. Besides, my mother was my entire world. Once she was gone, I wouldn't let anyone else take care of me. I was in the system for three days. Then I doubled back to our apartment, grabbed everything I didn't want someone else getting ahold of, and vanished." I responded, idly spinning the now-empty soup cup.

"How did you find this place?" he gestured to the apartment around us.

"Trial and error. I didn't stay in it much after I found my lieutenants, but once The Young started growing I came here for space. Did you like the home?" I asked, cocking my head. I certainly wouldn't have, but I did want to know what some of my Young had experienced.

He shrugged.

"Some days were better than others. We went to school, came home. Had Mass on Sundays."

"You didn't do anything for fun?"

"The roof doubled as a playground; we used to play baseball and stuff up there. Sometimes we told stories."

Amused, I sat forward, an eyebrow raised behind my mask.

"What kind of stories?"

"Our favorites were about Bruce Wayne." There was a strange light in his eyes, like he was trying to tell me something, but I was too exhausted to care at the moment.

"Because he was an orphan?" I inquired, watching him nod.

"Yeah. The Batman was your angel, Bruce Wayne was ours." The light grew larger, more obvious, he was trying to hint at something without saying it directly, but what?

"Have you ever met him?"

"Once or twice." Okay, now he was being _deliberately_ evasive. Well, I didn't have the patience for it; my shoulder was killing me and I would need to sleep off the rest of this pneumonia soon.

_Thank heaven it looks like a minor case. _

Since I didn't know if Blake would be here when I woke up, it was time to get down to business.

"How is The Young doing?"

If the change of topic threw him off, he didn't show it.

"Savvy's taken charge and doing a great job. We've already done several successful raids on Bane's men and gotten a huge amount of supplies. You chose her well. Jazz never leaves her side even though he can't stand us; he was actually the one who told us what had happened to you."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised at Jazz's initiative. He avoided cops like the plague.

"Really? Remind me to give him a raise."

"You pay them?"

"Don't be stupid. How is Scout?"

Blake sighed, folding his hands in front of him.

"You and I both know she's hurting."

Closing my eyes, I nodded.

"Yeah, I know."

"She's and Gordon have gotten close though."

"_What?_"

"She follows him around a lot. And he asks about her when she doesn't show up for meetings and stuff. Is that such a bad thing?"

I gritted my teeth.

_Yes. The man is a liar and a fool. _

"No. It just surprised me. I guess it shouldn't have. Now, this next question is highly crucial, and I want you to answer honestly. Where, _exactly_, is Matchstick at this very second?"

He looked wary at the sudden acid in my voice.

"Gordon has her locked up in a back room at our base. She has no idea where they are or where your new base is. I take it you know they moved?"

"Yes. Another reason to give Savvy a raise. Continue."

"She doesn't say much, but we know she's listening for anything she can. She seems to think we're going to let her go, but the minute we do she'll go running to Bane, you know that."

I thought about the toxin concealed in my desk, and then hated myself for doing it.

"I'll handle it." I said coolly, and watched the wariness in Blake's eyes grow exponentially.

"Maestro, you can't be thinking – "

"I said I'll handle it. What's the plan you're working on now?" I asked sharply, cutting him off. Alliance or no alliance, I'd deal with our traitors in my own way. Gordon and his men would have no say in it, regardless of whether or not they were cops.

He looked suspicious, but continued.

"Savvy's got a huge raid planned for tomorrow. A couple of us are going with her, but I don't have to if you need – "

"Don't flatter yourself. What do they know about my situation?" I cut him off again.

"They know you're alive, and only your lieutenants and Scout and a handful of others know you were with Crane. Only Gordon knows you've escaped." he responded, looking exasperated.

I grinned, reaching for another baton and spinning it idly as a plan formulated in my mind. Bane didn't know I was alive, my Young didn't know I was free, and they were planning a large raid for tomorrow.

_Bane thinking Maestro is dead plus Maestro showing up at a raid and kicking his butt (indirectly) is greater than or equal to the demise of Crane._ _This has promise. _

"What time is the raid?"

"Seven A.M. They're sending the men out in larger groups now, like you said, and there's a contingent that sticks to Main Street that we're targeting." he said, watching me before gesturing to the rapidly-spinning baton in my hand. "Savvy said you only do that when you're scheming, and frankly it's kind of scary. What are you thinking?"

_Main Street, huh? So not only will the raid be large and myself unexpected, but it will be a _public_ raid. Oh, this is just too perfect. _

"Maestro?" Blake asked, looking at me warily again.

I smirked at him.

"You wouldn't happen to have a spare motorcycle I could borrow, would you?"

**A/N: Anyone else's life, like, ridiculously busy all of a sudden? Seriously, the only reason I got this done was because I stayed home sick. :P _That_ is my life right now. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! I know this wasn't incredibly fluffy, but I figured we're getting there, and hey, baby steps. OH! And I also have a new poll that you should check out. :D **

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Hallelujah" by any number of people. I prefer either Jason Castro or Kate Voegele myself, so whatever you think fits best. **

**Can we all just take a moment to give my beta, **Amai-chan1993**, a huge round of a applause? I feel like that would be a totally appropriate thing to do. She rocks. :)**

**A special thanks also to (deep breath): **QuirkyRandomChika, takara410, Deathstroke Terminator, WarriorDragonElf54, Eva Sirico, keeleymcgregor213, Gina-B-ookworm, Meg, crisis what crisis, MockingjayWolf, simplesonnets, ElfinCleona, the random bat, SilverBulletAngel, Solstice White, InsaneoneX, **and** Nyx811 **for all of your incredibly sweet feedback! Thank you also to those who favorited or alerted!**

**Don't forget to leave a review! Every time I read them I get all smiley. :) **

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	14. The Return

**For Your Entertainment**

_She can't see the landscape anymore  
__It's all painted in her grief  
__All of her history etched out at her feet  
__Now all of the landscape, it's just an empty place  
__Acres of longing, mountains of tenderness_

_Cause she's just like the weather, can't hold her together  
__Born from dark water, daughter of the rain and snow  
__Cause it's burning through the bloodline  
__It's cutting down the family tree  
__Growing in the landscape, darling, in between you and me._

_Chapter XIII_

_The Return_

_(Eight years ago)_

_Lacey knew, cognitively at least, that she wasn't supposed to be listening. Nor, for that matter, was Lucas supposed to be wholeheartedly supporting her impromptu spying session by standing directly behind her, pressed against the corridor wall with his head craned over her shoulder to hear better. _

_Shooting him a look that she hoped properly conveyed her annoyance, she lightly elbowed her twin brother in a manner that clearly read "personal space needed" and focused her attention back on the conversation in the kitchen around the corner. _

"_What are we going to do, Will?" her mother whispered, the trembling of her voice making it obvious to the pair of ten-(and a half, thank you very much)-year-olds that something was terribly wrong. Jane Sharpe was a composed, collected woman who was rarely fazed by anything. The twins exchanged worried glances as they heard their father's equally shaken reply. _

"_I don't know, Jane. I didn't have another choice. We were gonna lose the house." he murmured, his voice muffled as though something was obscuring his face. A brief peek around the corner revealed his head to be in his hands, their mother seated at the table next to him in a stunningly similar position. _

"_Why Will? Why them, of all people? You know who they work for! And forget _him_, what happens if the police find out? We'll have a lot more to deal with than foreclosure!" their mother was borderline frantic, and out of reflex Lacey reached for her brother's hand and grasped it tightly. He squeezed her palm, his presence instantly soothing as it always was. _

"_You don't think I haven't considered all of this already Jane? I had to make a decision and I made it. If the cops come, you don't know anything, alright? It was all me." whispered their father, the scraping of wood against linoleum telling them he'd stood up, and, knowing him, was likely pacing. The twins automatically drew back along the wall, their stockinged feet prepared to fly across the carpet and into their bedroom down the corridor. They were old pros at this little game, but tonight's session had seemed more and more grave from the moment suspiciously hushed voices had carried down the hall and into their bedroom door that was always left slightly open at night. _

"_And what about _him?_" their mother asked, her voice barely audible in the deafening silence of the __kitchen, speaking the final word as though afraid to even say it in reference to whomever she was talking about. "What if _he_ comes and we haven't paid him back?" _

_It was quiet for several seconds, and Lacey wondered if her father was going to answer at all. She saw a similar question written in Lucas' eyes. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and grave and broken. _

"_We won't stand a chance." _

**~DKR~**

Even the air was holding its breath in anticipation, anticipation that was defined by the blood that raced with determination through my veins. It was nearly time.

I lifted the binoculars to my eyes, focusing the lenses on a stretch of road located about three blocks away. There was nothing special about this span of concrete, it was grey and lined with yellow paint like all the rest. It had only one distinguishing feature, only one reason that it would catch my interest.

It was Main Street.

I couldn't deny, I was worried about the location. Despite the fact that this attack being in the open would work to my own personal advantage, it left a huge margin for error when it came to my rebels. If they weren't careful, they'd be sitting ducks.

Blake had managed to get me up to speed on the general plan, which was to strike too quickly for the Goons to call backup, get the supplies, and get out. The advantage was in the fact that it was an ambush early in the morning and that some of the commissioner's men had secure sniper positions in the buildings lining the road, but even knowing this I was still concerned.

It didn't help that the courthouse was located at the far end of the street, or that the building where Bane was rumored to be staying was two blocks away. I admired Savvy's boldness and knew this particular raid was a necessity because of the sheer amount of Goons that would be patrolling today, all carrying an incredible amount of supplies and ammo, but it was a _huge _risk.

The kind of risk that any number of them would easily never walk away from.

It was incredibly cold on the rooftop, and I set the binoculars on the ground for the moment, ignoring the twinge of pain in my shoulder. Three minutes, if Blake hadn't screwed up the time and Savvy's watch was still synced to my own. Luckily, mine was waterproof, and had thus survived my little dip in the bay.

The thought of Blake made me scowl from behind my mask, not so much from annoyance anymore, but from confusion. After he'd finished giving me the details of the plan last night, I had gone to bed, yielding to the needs of my body for once in order to speed up the healing process. But he was still there when I woke up.

I could _not _understand why. He wanted to help, sure, and cognitively I understood _that_, but my brain and my instinctive mistrust of anything that moved hadn't been on speaking terms for ages so it was difficult to reconcile.

Two minutes. I adjusted my ponytail with my left hand and secured the vials, encased with a protective layer of bubble wrap, and notebook in my pocket with my right. I had retrieved them from my desk this morning, when Blake had stopped watching me long enough to call Gordon to quadruple-check the time of the raid, and as of yet I was still unsure what I was going to do with them.

"_Hey there Maestro. This is quite a turnout, isn't it?" _

"_I guess that mess is your fault then, huh?"_

"_Even if he is alive, he's not coming back!" _

My blood boiled anew and I tensed, my teeth gritted as I tried to stifle the hate welling up inside of me.

_Stitches' dying cry splits the air, and Matchstick's smirk only grows wider..._

My fist curled around what I instinctively knew was the vial containing the toxin. It would be so easy, once I got my hands on her, to slip the cap off the container and –

The watch chimed. It was time.

I snapped into focus immediately, grabbing the binoculars lying by my boots and crouching down on the roof, training the lenses on that stretch of road in the distance.

_Come on, come on, come on... There. _

At the far end of the street, a band of thirty men, – _holy crap that was _huge – armed and deadly, advanced in a loose group on the concrete. Once they finished their routine checks of the buildings around them and reached the end of the road, they'd break off into groups of... probably five, if what Blake told me was true and they weren't going out in small numbers anymore.

I scoffed at their ignorance. It would take a lot more than five to stop Savvy when she wanted something, I could see that now. The Goons didn't stand a chance in packs of anything less than ten. If that didn't tick Bane off, I didn't know what would.

I scanned the lenses wider across the area. The alleys looked desolate, but that was normal. Savvy wouldn't tip her hand until it was far too late for the Goons to retreat. The world was quiet for now, but it wouldn't last long.

Several minutes passed as the Goons made their routine sweep of the buildings on either side of them, making slow but steady progress down the road. Adrenaline hummed in my veins and I tensed, knowing that as soon as they got a safe distance from the courthouse all heck would break loose. Despite knowing this, I still jumped out of my skin when it did.

Earsplitting... _noise_ was the only way to describe the sound coming out of the massive speakers set up in alleys and apartment windows, because it certainly wasn't music. It was the squeal of a guitar, the senseless banging of drums, the ear-shattering clash of cymbals, the sharp wail of bagpipes being brutally murdered, and I could hear it all even from where I was. The noise was designed to disorient, and it had its desired effect as several Goons clapped their hands over their ears, doubling over as they were confronted by sound that had to be deafening up close. It was so loud that it nearly masked the sound of gunshots coming from the open windows of several apartments lining the road, instantly taking down... by my count that was six Goons that fell, never to get up again. The effect was instantaneous.

The men scattered to take cover in the alleys, disoriented by the noise and confused as to where the gunshots were coming from, and then _they_ came. My Young poured out from the spaces between buildings, bats and tasers and drumsticks flying, engaging the confounded men in a combat they were woefully unprepared for. It was pandemonium.

_That's my cue._

With a grin, I dropped my binoculars and swept up my batons, prepared to ignore every ailment to aid my Young. I'd been away for entirely too long; if I suffered further injury to get back to them, well, I'd already established that wasn't an issue several times over.

Blake was already on the scene, he had been since this morning after trying (and failing miserably) to talk me out of going on this raid. He claimed I wasn't ready; I claimed he was an idiot and made sure he understood I was going anyway.

I clambered gingerly down the drainpipe, coughing all the while, and sprang onto a waiting motorcycle Blake had managed to procure from a Goon a while back. I thrummed the engine, reveling momentarily at the sound of the lion-like purr as it met my ears. My destination wasn't far; this was merely for show than anything else, but a small thrill of excitement went through me as I realized this would be my first time operating a motorcycle.

_Something tells me this amount of joy is unnatural and probably strange. _

At the moment, I didn't care. I hit the gas and immediately took off, tearing around alley corners and down side streets with a breathtaking speed that caused me to release an exhilarated laugh into the air. I hoped Blake wasn't too attached, because he was _never_ getting this thing back.

_Why haven't I ever done this before?_

My target was rapidly approaching. I put on another burst of speed and whipped with dizzying velocity around the final corner. Main Street loomed up ahead and the noise of sheer _rebellion_, from the music as well as kids and cops, was all around me, curling like smoke in the air, like dye in water. I basked in it.

The Goons had most likely gotten their bearings by now, I could hear the return fire of their machine guns and I prayed my Young would have enough sense to get out of the way.

_Here goes nothing._

I pushed the bike as fast as it would go, sending it careening onto Main Street with a screech of rubber that hurt my ears and grinning when I saw what was happening around me. It was chaos, beautiful and deadly, and for a moment I saw the world as the Joker must have. It was a briefly terrifying thought, one I made the executive decision not to dwell on.

Instead I focused on a small group of about five Goons, who had successfully skirted the madness and were doing better than the rest, firing into windows where I knew Gordon's men had been positioned. When they weren't doing that, they were firing into the crowd of my Young, who had, for the most part, taken up coverage in the alleys once again. Their presence kept the Goons from advancing further or seeking sanctuary there, and I mentally applauded Savvy's genius as I aimed my bike in their direction – straight down the center of the street.

_I've got your number, suckers. _

I could feel the stares and occasionally heard an exclamation of surprise from my Young as I rode by, but I tuned it all out and sped on, ducked low in front of the small windshield between the handlebars of the bike. As I grew closer to them, the Goons took notice of my course and had to divide their attention between the snipers in the buildings and me, but their bullets either ricocheted off the metal of my bike or missed entirely.

_For the most part_, I added mentally as a few shots shattered my windshield and missed my head by scant centimeters. I ducked lower.

I was nearly there, and my blood pulsed with anticipation once the Goons finally seemed to catch on to what I was doing. Instinctively, they scattered, resulting in two direct hits from the cops that ensured their demise.

_My turn._

With an acknowledgement that Blake was probably going to kill me for this if I managed to survive, I pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go, set on a collision course for the remaining three Goons, and flicked my left wrist, a baton sliding easily into it from where I had tucked it in the sleeve earlier. In the same smooth movement, I sped past a Goon and brought it down hard on the back of his head. He dropped like a rock, as did his companion when I caught up to him. The remaining Goon had stopped running a few yards ahead of me, and for a single instant in time I found myself in the scope of his machine gun, unable to change course or even duck before I knew his finger would tug the trigger.

And there was a gunshot, and it did hit someone, but it wasn't me who fell. It was him.

_Well, that was serendipitous._

For a moment, I stared at his blood as it pooled from the hole in his head, reminded that I myself had done that to two of his brothers, mere days ago.

_Snap out of it. You have work to do._

With a two-fingered salute in the general direction of the window where some unknown person had just saved my life, I leaped off the bike and turned back to fight on foot. I could feel eyes on me, most likely from Goons who had heard that I'd been sentenced, so I pasted on a wicked grin for their benefit. "Maestro the Immortal" had a nice ring to it.

_Not Savvy... Not Savvy... Still not Savvy, where is Savvy? _

I scowled as I took down another Goon who'd been firing like a lunatic into one of the alleys, looking all over for my dark-skinned companion. I needed to see her, I needed to know she was –

_There. _

She was right there, standing at the mouth of a side street between two massive buildings and just... _staring_ at me, like she couldn't believe I was in front of her. Her mouth had formed a strange little "o" shape and her eyes were huge behind the mask she wore, and it would have looked incredibly funny if I didn't feel a pang in my chest at the sight of her.

I realized with a start that I had... _missed_ her. I had missed her because she was my friend, and I had missed her calm, collected voice in my ear that was constantly giving advice and smoothing over my many mistakes. Without hesitating further, I sprinted in her direction.

Her mouth split into the biggest grin I had ever seen her wear and she let out a whoop of glee, before immediately slamming a baton into the head of a Goon who had been stupid enough to get too close and kicking him in the groin.

_Yep, that's definitely Savvy. _

Still smiling, she ripped off the mask on her face, something in her shoulders relaxing as she did, and tossed it at my feet. She was acknowledging my position as leader, acknowledging that I was the real Maestro, in front of everyone, in front of the Goons, cops, and The Young, and I loved her for it.

"The Maestro's back!" she called, and the Young around her cheered and passed the message on down the street, where the cry was taken up by every kid who fought. It seemed to give them new strength, and they poured out of the alleys once again, whooping and howling like psychotic animals and_ I_ _had missed them_. The cops picked the Goons off one by one as they went on the defensive, seemingly alarmed at the vehemence these mere children were showing all of a sudden and still disoriented by the noise of abused instruments that rang around them. With a yell of my own, I leaped into the fray, fighting and kicking and clawing and we were winning and I could feel my tension and fear and guilt slip away...

That's when I heard it.

The gunshots.

Two of them, incredibly close, just like last time, and not aimed for me, just like last time. Instead, they hit something directly to my right, and there was a cry as the shots made contact.

I knew who it was before I even turned my head, but I swiveled on reflex (_don't be it can't be mother in heaven please say it isn't_) and my gut lurched at the sight that reached my eyes.

Savvy. It was Savvy, and she was lying on the ground and she wasn't _moving_ –

The world was bathed in red, and fury pounded in my head and ears and behind my eyes, and the rush of adrenaline that hit me was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.

With a snarl of rage, I whirled on the Goon that had _dared_ attack my lieutenant, _dared_ to turn his gun on her, and pounced. Moving with a speed I didn't even know I possessed, I gripped the white-hot barrel of his machine gun – _burning through the glove, searing the spot where my scar was and I didn't __care –_ and pushed, driving it into his solar plexus with incredible force and swinging it up to slam into his face as he doubled over, shattering his nose beyond repair. I then jerked the weapon away from his loosened grip and kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling onto his back. For a moment I had him in my crosshairs and the barrel was pointed directly at his heart – _I could pull the trigger, I could watch his blood leak out of his body, drop by drop_ –

The thought was, for a single second, so appealing I was nearly blinded by it.

And then, out of nowhere, I thought of Blake, and how he hadn't judged me for the murders of the two Goons a few days ago and how he still seemed to trust me, even though I had given him no reason to.

I swore and hated him for getting in my head.

With a low growl, I lowered the gun... and fired directly into both his kneecaps. It wouldn't kill him, but it made me feel a heck of a lot better to know this particular dirtbag would never walk again.

_Take that, you scum-sucking son of a –_

His scream split the air, but I barely registered it and didn't actually care as I tossed the gun away, rushing to Savvy's side as all of my murderous thoughts seemed to flee my brain, replaced by panicked ones. She was still breathing, I knew could still keep her alive if I could just find the wound –

"M-Maestro... I –" she coughed, sounding as though she was gasping for air and I shushed her, looking for blood. Where was it?

"Maestro – _cough_ – I'm fine..." she tried again, and I glared at her.

"Don't be stupid. You've been shot and and I can't find the wound. Where does it hurt?" If she was going into shock, it might not hurt at all. Or it could hurt everywhere, and neither of those scenarios were helpful to me at the moment.

"Maes-"

"Savvy! Don't try to talk unless you're going to tell me where you've been shot!" I was too busy panicking to notice the lack of pandemonium around me, or that the music – if it could even be called that – had been cut off.

"_Maestro!_" she shrieked suddenly, taking me entirely by surprise, and my head snapped up to look at her.

"What?" I asked, confused. Now that I looked closer, she really did look fine, not pale and distant like Stitches had in her last moments. So what was going – ?

"Look, you idiot." she said, exasperated, as she lifted up her shirt to reveal a vest made of thick black material, the middle of which held two perfect circles of compressed metal.

Kevlar. She was wearing kevlar, and it had stopped the bullets. At the most, she'd be bruised for a couple of weeks.

The cry of relief left my lips too fast for me to stop it and she sat up with a wince, looking over my form as I had looked at hers not seconds before, eyes lingering on where she knew I'd taken a bullet. I sagged and closed my eyes to stop the flow of tears that wanted to burst out, my body trembling and shoulder smarting at the loss of adrenaline and_ I had almost lost my best friend _–

Someone was hugging me.

I stiffened, even though logic dictated it could only be Savvy, but I was unsure how to respond. I wasn't used to embraces, and there were probably other people around.

"I'm glad you're back." she whispered, holding me tighter.

_Screw it._

My arms went around her immediately, and for a few seconds, we just held each other, each taking comfort in the knowledge that the other was alive.

I pulled back after a moment to put my hands on her shoulders, looking her directly in the face so she would get my message loud and clear.

"You did _such_ a good job, Savvy. Do you hear me? Finding out Matchstick, knowing I'd be on the ice, these raids, leading The Young... I couldn't have asked for a better lieutenant, or a better friend. Thank you."

There were tears in her eyes and she sniffed to hold them back. I had never once acknowledged that we were friends out loud, because friendship implied trust, but I had no idea it had meant this much to her.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you, out on the ice." she said softly.

I shook my head.

"That was _not_ your fault. You did what I would do, which is come up with a last-minute plan that will probably go sideways, and if and when it does, you make the best of it and move on. You did all of that and... I'm... _proud_... of you."

I wrinkled my nose at the sound of the words coming out of my mouth. I was talking like I was her mother or something. Still, her quiet laugh told me she understood.

"Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?" I asked, willing to promise the moon and follow through with it because _we were friends_ and that was what friends did.

"Never make me put that mask on again. It pinches." she said, smiling in a way that didn't quite reach her eyes. Only now could I see the stress and worry lines on her face, lines that seemed to make her look years older, and I read deeper into her half-joking request.

I gave her a small smile and stood, extending my hand to help her up.

"You will never have to wear it again. I promise."

And I meant it.

**~DKR~**

_Once morning came around, her parents were back to their characteristically loving, happy selves, and Lacey didn't give a second thought to the conversation she'd overheard. As the days passed, she witnessed no further slips in her parent's control, so she assumed the problem had been taken care of and that all was well. Lucas, however, remained unconvinced._

"_Why are they acting like nothing's wrong?" he asked one night as the pair sat awake on their beds, sharing a pack of contraband Twizzlers in the dim glow of his blue lava lamp that served as their nightlight. _

_Lacey shrugged, unconcerned, as she watched a blob of blue gel float lazily to the top. _

"_Why would they?"_

_He shot her a look that suggested he was mentally questioning her intelligence. She didn't like that look. That brat Sarah Jacobs had given it to her whenever she asked a question during the lesson on geography yesterday in class. Lacey made a face at the memory. Geography was hard. _

"_Remember that talk they had weeks ago in the kitchen?" he asked, gesturing for the bag of candy in her lap. She tossed it to him. _

"_So?"_

_He gave an annoyed, and highly exaggerated, sigh. _

"So _it sounded like a big deal, and you could hear how scared they were, but they aren't acting afraid!" he replied as he viciously tore one end off the licorice with his teeth. _

_She shrugged again and took a piece of her own from the pile on her lap. Grown-ups were weird like that. _

"_Maybe it just isn't a problem anymore." _

_Lucas shook his head, the shifting light of the lava lamp casting comical shadows on his face._

"_I thought so too, except I heard Dad on the phone the other night; he was yelling and asking for more time for something." _

_Lacey leaned forward. _

"_What happened then?" _

_A dark look crossed his features, one that Lacey knew better than to label a pout. Her brother was in the process of "having a mood", as he insisted it be described when his temper was off, and it was not at all the same thing. (Secretly, Lacey thought it sounded stupid, but she would never tell him that because it would only make it worse, and then he wouldn't share his candy.) _

"_I don't know. Mom told me to stop being a sneak and to go clean the bedroom, even though it was only _your_ side that was messy." he said, narrowing his eyes in accusation. She shrugged. There was no point in denying it; she didn't like cleaning. It was boring, and there were more important things to do. Like plotting ways to trick Sarah Jacobs into accidentally eating a slug. Or two. _

"_It's not a big deal, Luke. They would tell us if something was really wrong." she replied with conviction, looking out the window over the nightstand between their beds and seeing the bright yellow symbol of a bat illuminated in the night sky. _

_She took comfort in it, as all the kids her age did. A boy in third grade even said the Batman saved him from that gas attack in the Narrows a few months back, and had this really cool grapple-hook thing to prove it. _

_Lucas made a discontented sound and put his candy away, in a secret stash that only the pair of them knew about in a loose floorboard under his bed. _

"_I still say something's up." he huffed, discontented, before laying down and pulling his Transformers comforter over himself and turning his back to her. _

_Lacey followed his lead and laid down under her own blanket, still staring at the symbol suspended over downtown Gotham, her parents' troubles the furthest thing from her mind._

_She'd like to meet the Batman too, someday. _

**~DKR~**

My only problem with the new base – okay, only _two_ problems, but they kind of went hand-in-hand – was that it was specifically chosen to be close to Gordon, and that the cops now had free access to enter and leave our headquarters whenever they wanted. Still, the warehouse was roomy enough, and my Young seemed to like it, so I'd deal with it until a more suitable time to move presented itself.

"How did you get them to agree to work with the police?" I asked Savvy as everyone from the raid entered, chaos erupting in the base as kids ran to find their siblings and the incredible amount of supplies we had stolen was moved to trucks to be taken to our secondary storage location.

She gave me a sheepish grin, ducking around a cluster of embracing teenagers.

"Um, I sorta maybe might have... told them that you trusted them. Sorry."

I whirled on her.

"_Savvy!_"

She grimaced.

"I said I'm sorry! Jazz brought them here and the kids started panicking and you were _gone_, Maestro, and I didn't know how else to keep everyone under control, and I had no clue how I was gonna do any of this! You may not need their help, Maestro, but I'm not you and I _did_."

I sighed and rubbed my temples, feeling a headache coming on.

"Never mind, Savvy. I'll handle it. Now where –?"

"Maestro!"

_Ah, there he is. _

Jazz came running up to me, an uncharacteristic smile lighting up his face, and while we did not embrace – that was neither Jazz's style nor mine – a single nod was all it took to convey my feelings of relief at seeing him. He mirrored the sentiment, looking as though he had several things he wanted to say and was unsure how to begin. Finally, he settled with: "I'm glad you're back."

I gave him another nod.

"Good work, Jazz. I'm glad you went to Gordon after I fell, they needed to know." I said as I walked, the pair taking up an easy trot by my side.

He winced, as though the memory still pained him.

"Yeah yeah. Still not happy about it, though."

As we moved, kids swarmed around me, cheering and wishing me well and calling out taunts for the masked menace, about how I was invincible and he should be worried.

I didn't deserve any of it, and my stomach clenched because I knew I was going to have to tell them why. My return could end up being a very short one indeed.

The cool metal of Stitches' necklace suddenly sliding against my chest brought another thought to my mind, and I turned to Savvy.

"Where's Scout? I didn't see her at the raid."

My lieutenants exchanged a look.

"Gordon didn't want her going out with us today..." Savvy said cautiously, and I cocked an eyebrow behind my mask, stunned.

"And she listened? Just like that?"

They glanced at one another again.

"Well... yeah, Maestro. She does whatever he tells her. She follows him everywhere when she's not scouting, and he's been making her take it easy so her arm will heal. They've gotten close." Jazz muttered, pointedly avoiding my gaze.

That bothered me a lot, and it bothered me more that I couldn't explain _why_. Of course she'd latch onto someone when her only family left in the world had died, it made perfect sense. I just didn't understand why it had to be _him_. Or why she'd stay when he told her to but not when I did.

_Looks like the commissioner and I need to have a little chat about not stealing my kids. _

I gritted my teeth and kept walking, heading straight to the platform situated in the center of the warehouse. My lieutenants exchanged another look, this one bordering on exasperated, before taking their places on either side of me.

My hands were shaking. This was really, really, _really_ not a conversation I wanted to have. Still, I nodded at Savvy, who raised two fingers to her lips and released a shrill whistle that hurt my ears.

This got the attention of The Young and they instantly crowded around, murmuring excitedly, no doubt thinking I had some new plan in place for another raid. The weight of the truth that settled in my stomach made me want to crawl away in shame.

"Hey, everybody," I began with a hesitant grin, which broadened a bit when they started cheering, "Sorry about my little leave of absence, trust me, it won't be happening again." More cheers, but this time I held up a hand to quiet them.

"First, before I say more, well done on the raid, and the way you followed Savvy's leadership. We scored a major win today, guys, and Bane's gonna take notice. So good job."

Pleased murmurs through the room, and _I really didn't want to be doing this _–

I took a bracing inhale and forced myself to continue. They deserved to know. It was one thing to be a murderer, but it was another thing to hide it.

"I'm assuming that you all know about the loss of our medic, Stitches, who was killed at the hands of the man who devastated our city." I continued, and the room sobered immediately, the faces of many turning sorrowful. "It was done without mercy and in cold blood, and I could do nothing to stop it."

The faces around me were grave, silent. Her loss had hit them hard, and when we got the body count back from today's raid, I imagined it would hit them even harder. I knew at least one was dead, I had seen a few boys carrying the body of a young girl as we fled the scene earlier, and the memory of it still turned my stomach. However, nothing sickened me more than the information I was about to reveal.

_Mother in heaven, give me strength. _

"We live by a code here, the Bat Code. This set of rules keeps us hopeful and from becoming like the men we're fighting against. However," I swallowed and found that my mouth had gone dry, "I broke the Code that I swore to live by, one that I impress on you constantly, and I took the lives of two of Bane's men. I was just as merciless as they were, and I attempted to kill more. Their blood is on my hands now, and I cannot stay leader of The Young without your permission. If my breaking of the Code is a crime worthy of banishment, please say so now, and I will leave immediately."

As soon as the words left my lips, I could feel the weight of my lieutenant's gazes on me, but I steadfastly ignored it; I was pretty sure they had assumed what had happened in that alley anyway. Despite this, they didn't like that I was giving The Young the chance to do what I would have done in their position; if I had knowledge of someone breaking the Code I would have banished them without a second thought.

The room was as still as death, the silence echoing off the walls and leaving an odd ringing in my ears. My eyes raked over the crowd as I clenched my fists, picking out faces and weighing their reactions. Some had begun to murmur to one another, but the snatches of conversation I caught were too disjointed to make sense.

For five, terrible minutes, I prepared myself for the worst. If they condemned me, Jazz and Savvy would leave by my side, I had no doubts whatsoever about that, and The Young would fall apart. Bane would now have a huge advantage without the opposition from my rebellion, and it would be entirely my fault.

That problem opened up another one: if I did leave, what would I do? Sit idly by while Bane dragged the city closer and closer to its doomsday?

_Not freaking likely._

I supposed my lieutenants and I would continue the fight on our own, but that was a long shot and would probably be virtually ineffective against Bane and his allies.

_What have I done? _

Then, out of nowhere, someone spoke up from the crowd, immediately and effectively snapping me out of my reverie.

"Don't be an idiot. You aren't going anywhere." A chorus of agreements came from the group, and I couldn't keep my eyes from widening as I laid eyes on who had spoken.

_Rook._

That went against everything I knew about him, which worried me slightly. I searched his gaze for any sign of an ulterior motive, and when I found none I could only stare.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, shifting uncomfortably under my gaze and the incredulous eyes of my lieutenants, "Anybody else in your position would either be dead or have given up on us. You survived and came back, so I figure you're the only one besides the Batman who actually stands a chance against beating Bane."

I couldn't keep the grin of relief from my face. I was staying. My stupid decision hadn't cost me everything.

_At least not yet._

Looking out over the crowd, a warm feeling spread in my chest. These were my Young, my family. I had missed them all. Momentarily lost for words, – _Contact the Gotham Times,_ a cruel voice whispered in my subconscious, and I stifled a shudder – all I could do was nod to show my gratitude as tears of relief formed at the corners of my eyes. Fortunately for me, the mask hid that embarrassing little detail from view. Seeing my struggle, Savvy stepped in like the wonderful person she was.

"Stitches would have wanted us to keep fighting, to get these men out of our city, so that's what we're going to do. Whenever you start to feel like it's not worth it, remember her, and know that she wouldn't have quit. Neither will we. Dismissed." she concluded, and I watched, feeling oddly contented, as my Young dispersed.

"Scrap, I want a body count and full injury report in five minutes." I ordered, finding my voice and slipping easily back into my position of leadership as I stepped off the platform, Jazz and Savvy at my side. The teenage girl who had taken Stitches' place as head nurse nodded once, before disappearing in the direction of what I assumed was our new medical wing.

"Didn't see that coming," Savvy muttered as her eyes tracked Rook's progress across the warehouse. Jazz bristled.

"With the way he challenged you I thought for sure he was gonna vote to kick Maestro out."

I scowled upon hearing this, but didn't have time to dwell on it. I needed to rendezvous with Gordon and retrieve my head of reconnaissance.

_And take care of a firebug._

I tried to roll the tension out of my shoulders – with little success – at the thought. The need for vengeance that had gripped me in front of the Goon earlier could not take hold when I confronted Matchstick. I couldn't afford to take another life.

"Savvy, I need you to stay here and help organize. Direct teams and help the runners find new routes across town that don't involve Main Street. It's gonna be crawling with Goons for days, and Bane will probably make an appearance, so let everyone know to give the area a wide berth." I commanded as my lieutenant nodded and stepped back into her favored role of second-in-command, before trotting off to the planning table where a few others were gathered.

"Jazz, help the boys run the supplies we just got to our safe house, okay? Lay low, take a couple of flares and a grenade or two." he nodded much the way Savvy had and darted away. "And for heaven's sake wear kevlar!" I called after his fleeing figure. He lifted up his shirt in response, revealing the item in question underneath, and winked at me as he vanished into a crowd of kids.

I rolled my eyes and turned towards the exit, nearly jumping out of my skin as Scrap seemed to practically materialize directly in front of me.

"Don't _do_ that," I growled, trying to slow my racing heart and simultaneously not have flashbacks of the basement, "Report."

She gave me a sheepish grin.

"Sorry Maestro. We had several minor injuries: cuts, scrapes, bruises, and one sprained ankle. There were a couple of major wounds: two fractures, a broken wrist, collarbone, several broken noses, a dislocated shoulder, and a handful injuries from bullets, all flesh. Those didn't hit anything vital."

I nodded solemnly; this was to be expected in a major raid, but that wasn't what concerned me.

"How many did we lose?" I wasn't entirely certain I wanted to know the answer.

Scrap lowered her head, running her fingers through platinum-blonde hair, and sighed deeply. She couldn't have been older than fifteen.

"Three so far; another one took a bullet almost directly to an artery in his leg. He's only got a couple of minutes at the most. We don't have the equipment to save him, and it's too far to the hospital."

I swore violently and paced away, my own injuries plaguing me at full force. I would probably need to sit down soon.

The hospitals were understaffed even if we were close enough to move him there, and Goons patrolled them regularly. Even if we could get there in time and he was treated, if Bane's men found out who he was he'd be in the courthouse before he could blink.

"Can I make a suggestion?" Scrap asked tentatively, her eyes following my every movement.

I inhaled slowly, trying to calm down, before nodding at her. My shoulder was killing me, and I was cold again.

"The cops have a couple of medics working with them, fully trained. They've helped out a little while you were gone, but the injuries haven't been this bad before, and I..." her voice trailed off and I easily read into her unspoken concern. She wasn't as skilled as Stitches was.

I sighed, conceding.

"I'll see if I can get one of them to work with us on a more permanent basis, alright?"

She gave another nod before I dismissed her, turning away to leave the building. It was becoming more and more evident that, as things escalated, I was going to have to rely more on Gordon's men. That didn't mean I had to like it at all, and I had no intention of hiding my scorn for them.

Because no matter how many times I had failed, it was _their_ failure that put us here in the first place, that caused the battle lines to be drawn by kids.

And, no matter how long I lived, I would _never_ forgive them for that.

**~DKR~**

_Their parents had been increasingly more distracted of late, seeming to communicate with simple looks and gestures rather than words. Their father looked pale and drawn, their mother wrung her hands constantly. _

_Something was wrong, but the twins had no idea what it could be. Much to the alarm of the pair of ten-year-olds, changes began taking place around the house. Furniture was sold and not replaced, jewelry was pawned, food was always canned or frozen, and, more than once, the electricity was cut off. _

_It didn't take a genius to figure out their parents needed money for something, but what? It was impossible to find out._

_Hushed conversations cut off whenever one of them appeared, their father's study was now kept firmly locked, and any attempts to ask what was wrong were merely brushed off with a borderline-hysterical laugh and a suggestion to go play outside. _

_Things continued on this way for another month, and it was grating on everyone's nerves. Lacey couldn't help but think that something big was about to happen, and soon. _

_She wasn't wrong. _

_It happened on a Friday night; that, at least, she can remember clearly. The light of a flickering streetlamp streamed in through their bedroom window as the twins sat awake, talking and teasing and eating candy and generally doing things their parents wouldn't approve of. _

_Then, out of nowhere, the doorbell rang. _

_The twins exchanged a confused glance. It was nearly one in the morning; why would someone visit now? _

"_It's probably just a bunch of kids, Jane, go back to sleep." they heard their father mutter from his bedroom down the hall as they scrambled to the door, peering between the crack curiously. He yawned as he emerged, mumbling a few very dirty words he would have made Lucas lick a soap bar for repeating, before entering the living room and leaving their line of sight. _

_They heard him open the door. _

"_I'm calling the cops if you kids don't-" there was an odd thudding noise and a strangled gasp from their father, and the sound of the door banging open reached their ears. Instinctively, the twins drew back. _

"_Hello Mr. Sharpe!" someone greeted, a man with a slick voice that carried an undercurrent of danger, "We've come to collect." _

"_I just need more time... please!" their father begged, before the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked was heard and he fell silent. Lacey stifled a gasp and her brother trembled, but put a hand over her mouth to keep her quiet. _

"_We gave you a lot of time, pal. Ages, even. But now... I want my money." the voice sent shivers up her spine, singled out in its coiled deadliness, but the sound of several other footsteps let her know that it was more than one person had entered the house. Where was their mother? _

"_Please, I'll do anything you want, just leave my family out of it!" their father cried, and that odd noise rang through the apartment again, followed by a grunt and the sound of a body hitting the floor. _

_Salty tears ran down Lacey's face, but she kept quiet, pressing her hand over Lucas' against her mouth. _

"_Well... do you have the money?" the voice asked, almost conversationally. _

_Silence. _

_Another grunt, this time louder and followed by wet coughing. _

"_No... I don't have it but I swear I will!" _

_More silence, and Lacey hoped, prayed, pleaded with Whoever might be listening that the man would decide to leave. _

"_I think this is a conversation the wife will want in on. Where is she, Will?" The voice was low, almost accented, and Lacey pressed back against her brother as a silhouette stole down the hallway and towards their door. _

_It was only their mother, and the twins held her tightly as she quietly entered, her face pale and her hands trembling. _

"_It's all right, you're gonna be all right, my dears," she soothed, her mouth barely moving as she pulled them farther into the room with her. _

"_Hide under the beds," she instructed in a tone that left no room for argument. The twins did so, pressing flat against the floor and locking terrified eyes when they realized that they could hear the vibrations in the floor; footsteps were coming this way. _

"_Bedroom's empty, boss." said a deep, guttural voice, one of the men that had entered with the one who was doing all the talking. _

"_Check the rest of the apartment. She's here and I wanna have a little chat." _

_More footsteps, closer this time and the bedroom door banged open; Lacey pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from shrieking as she jumped. Lucas' terrified eyes held her own, the panic in the room nearly tangible. However, when their mother spoke, her voice was level, controlled, angry. _

"_How dare you come into my home and terrorize my family like this?" she hissed, in a voice Lacey had never once heard her use and never wanted to be on the receiving end of._

_A pair of dark boots joined her mother's bare feet on the floor in front of their beds, an amused chuckle escaping the thug. _

"_Found her, boss!" he said, dragging her out of the room, and Lacey frantically waved Lucas back as he moved to go to her aid. That would be just like her brave, stupid brother, to fight when he didn't stand a chance. An if these men didn't kill him, their mother certainly would. _

"_Mrs. Sharpe," the first man's voice greeted almost cordially, "we were just discussing the matter of the loan your husband took out from me. I've come to collect it." _

"_I'm afraid we don't have it, Mr. Maroni, as my husband has already informed you." their mother replied stiffly, and in Lacey's mind's eye she could see her lifting her chin defiantly. _

_A deep, almost regretful sigh. _

"_I didn't want to have to do this, Mr. Sharpe," the man called Maroni continued, obviously redirecting his attention to their father, "But you're not leaving me much of a choice. Get me the kids. They're probably hiding in a closet or under a bed." _

_For a split instant, Lacey's mind went blank, and hysterically all she could think about was how many times this Maroni character had done something like this. Across from her, her brother's eyes widened in fear. She didn't know what he was going to do to them, but something told her it wouldn't be good. _

_Then, the frantic sound of her father yelling and their mother screaming for them to run snapped them both into action. Moving with an instinct the pair didn't know they had, they rolled out from under the bed and she sprinted to the window, while her brother slammed the door and locked it. The wood was old and the hinges rusty, so it wouldn't hold long, but that was far from her main concern at the moment as she jostled the stuck window latch. It had always been hard to open, but combined with her panic, trembling fingers and the fear of the thug – who sounded huge – currently throwing his weight against the bedroom door, the task was almost impossible. _

_Outside, the golden bat symbol glowed serenely against an overcast sky. Where was he? _

"_Come on Lace, we gotta go!" Lucas pressed, knocking aside the lamp on the nightstand in front of the window to give her better access. The ceramic base shattered against the floor, exposing wires like entrails along the hardwood. _

"_I'm trying Luke!" she shrieked as she heard the door behind her start to give. The fire escape on the other side seemed worlds away. She gave a final tug and finally, _finally_ the latch opened, and Lucas braced his arms along his side of the window to help her raise it. It was ridiculously heavy, and for the moment the world seemed to want them to get caught. _

_Behind them, the door cracked and opened a bit. _

_Outside, the symbol still glowed. The Batman did not show. _

_Lucas swore and Lacey didn't care as the window slid up with a great creak, and she ducked through just as the door cracked once more and banged open for the second time that night. Lucas was hot on her tail, and for a single, brief moment, a flash of a tendril of a second, he was in front of her on the fire escape, his body primed to start climbing down. _

_And then a huge, meaty arm extended through the opening and dragged her brother back inside. _

_Lacey screamed, knowing no one would think twice about it, not in this neighborhood, and tried to yank him towards her. _

"_Go Lace! Get help!" her brother said, kicking at her to get her to run as the thug made a grab for her as well. She was too quick, however, and leaped clear, tears streaming down her face as she paused on the top of the ladder, unsure. _

"_I can't leave you!" she cried, and a truer statement had never left her lips. He was her best friend, her confidante, and she would be lost without him. _

"_You have to get help!" he yelled back as the thug holding him called for assistance from another one of his friends, dragging her brother away from her. The sight of a second thug propelled her into action, and she flew with incredible grace down the metal ladder, hearing the man above her curse violently and give chase. _

_She was afraid, so afraid and angry and confused, but she had to help her brother, had to help her parents, had to get them away from that monster. The police would help until the Batman got there; that's where she'd go. _

_Her bare toes suddenly brushed the dirty pavement and she took off into the dark like the devil himself was on her heels, her breathing fast and erratic from terror as the thug behind her relentlessly pursued. _

_Above, the yellow sign was still illuminated against a backdrop of the darkest ink, but there was no legendary cowl or cape to be seen. _

_He was going to come. He had to. _

**~DKR~**

I really, _really_ hated how short the walk was between our base and Gordon's.

Like really, I hated it.

Not that it wasn't good to temporarily get out of the cold now that my sneezing and hacking had resumed since the antibiotics I had taken this morning were wearing off, but it was just another reminder of how dependent on the cops my Young had become because of my absence.

_I was gone for _four_ days. Four days, and suddenly the paranoia I worked for a month to instill goes out the window. Lovely. _

Gordon was leaning over a table when I walked in, surrounded by his boys in blue, and my stomach did a strange little tap-dance when I noticed Blake's handsome profile nearby.

"Hello gentlemen," I gave my customary greeting as I entered, turning my back on them in order to help myself to the coffeemaker nearby, "did you miss me?"

There was a second of silence behind me, and I grinned quietly to myself.

_Entrances are fun._

"Maestro." It was Gordon who spoke, and I bristled as quickly as though someone had flipped a switch before turning, cup of steaming coffee in hand. The men were all watching us interact warily, as though worried I had changed into a murderous lunatic while I was gone. I supposed their assessment wouldn't have been all that far off.

"Yeah?"

He gave me a small smile, one I resented.

"I'm glad you're safe."

I waved my hand at him dismissively, irritated that he wasn't behaving in a manner conducive to my anger.

"Save it for someone who cares. I heard you've been pilfering my head of recon. I'd like her back, if it's all the same to you." The bite in my tone was hard to miss, and even Blake looked annoyed. I told myself it didn't matter.

"She's-" the commissioner started, but was interrupted by the entrance of the strawberry-blonde spy herself, distracted as she furiously scribbled in one of her notebooks. The task was a bit awkward since she still had one arm in a sling.

"Gordon, how many people did you say were holed up in Wayne Tower again? We haven't been running supplies there so I'll need –" Suddenly noticing the stillness in the room, her head snapped up, expression momentarily confused until she laid eyes on me.

"_Maestro?_" she whispered, freezing instantly as her good hand dropped to her side. Shock registered on every feature of her face, and I gave her a small smile and set my coffee down on the counter I was leaning against.

"Hey kid."

With a small cry, the notebook fell to the floor and she was across the room in a second, throwing her arm around me and sobbing. I stiffened briefly, the contact still foreign. This whole "embracing" thing was gonna take some getting used to. After a moment, I hugged her back in spite of our audience, who all, with the exception of Blake and Gordon, suddenly found the plans on the table incredibly interesting.

"I thought you were gone." she whispered into my jacket, and I held her tighter before looking her directly in the eyes.

"Listen to me, Scout. I'm never gonna leave you. You hear me? I'll always come back for you. _Always_."

She sniffled and nodded, before wiping her face and stepping back.

"I heard about the raid today. They told me it went well and that we got a lot of supplies."

I grinned at her.

"If by 'went well' you mean we kicked serious butt, then yeah, it went fantastically."

I thought about Stitches' necklace, still tucked carefully into my shirt, but didn't relinquish it just yet. It wasn't the right time, and I wanted to do it in a setting where we could talk freely. She might have been comfortable having that conversation in front of Gordon, but I certainly was not. Which meant I had one last thing to do.

I looked up at the commissioner, straightening as I did so and placing my good hand on my hip, since my other arm was starting to ache something fierce. I'd have to make a tylenol run before the day was over.

"Where is Matchstick?"

Scout stiffened next to me and looked away, a mixture of anger and fear and pain etched across her face at the mention of the girl's name. My gut wrenched for her. Gordon looked warily between the two of us.

"She's in the back, contained."

I nodded, took a huge swig of my coffee, grimaced at the dreadful taste, and made to move past him. I wasn't expecting him to shift in front of me, and I ran into him briefly before recoiling as though I'd been burned.

My glare could have burned a hole through his chest.

"What?" I snapped.

"What are you going to do?" he inquired calmly, meeting my gaze without flinching.

"My job. I know that's a foreign concept to you, someone actually taking freaking _responsibility_ for something –"

"I need you to tell me exactly what your 'job' entails before I let you back there." he replied, just as calmly as before, and something dark and furious wriggled in the pit of my stomach. Who was he to tell me how I dealt with traitors to my Young? He didn't feel Stitches' blood on his hands, he didn't hear her last gasps for breath. As far as I was concerned, he was she reason she was dead in the first place.

"Try again." I snarled, my hands clenching into fists, "I don't have to tell you anything."

"Maestro –" Blake tried, but the glare I shot him was so fierce it shut him up immediately.

"Then I'm afraid I can't let you see her." Gordon responded, and in that second I _hated_ him, enough to wish him dead.

_You just made a _big_ mistake._

I tossed back my head and laughed, much to the surprise of the other cops, who were now watching us carefully.

"My dear commissioner, I direct your attention to the word 'let'. You've misused it. You don't 'let me', or 'not let me', anything. Now get out of my way."

He didn't move.

"Until I know what exactly it is you plan on doing, you aren't talking to her."

Fury coursed through my veins, and began I mentally charting the most vulnerable points on his body that, if struck, would be enough to _make_ an old man like him move. He had no idea who he was dealing with; none of them did.

My gaze challenged his.

"Get. Out. of. my. _Way_." I hissed through clenched teeth, because how dare he try and pretend he had any sort of authority over me when he hadn't since my mother's body hit the ground, how dare he pretend to be this upstanding heroic character when this entire freaking situation the city was in was all his fault –

"Maestro, stop! Don't you dare!" Scout's furious voice snapped me out of my enraged haze as effectively as a bucket of ice water. I realized I had flicked my baton out in my anger, and that several cops had formed a protective half-circle around the pair of us, Blake included. Had I moved to hit him, I would have been restrained before I even made contact. Gordon hadn't even flinched, which was, admittedly, kind of impressive. Not that I would ever tell anyone that.

I was instantly embarrassed and didn't dare look over at Blake. Where had any of that even come from?

Scout stormed over to me and pulled me away from him, her blue eyes dancing with anger.

"I get that you hate him, but this is stupid. He made some bad calls, yes, but so have you. You know why? Because that's what leaders do, Maestro! You make the only calls you can and you hope for the best. That's what he did, and some of them just didn't turn out to be the right ones. But that doesn't make him any more of a bad person than you are. You're more alike than you think. So please, _please_ just stop." her voice caught towards the end of her little speech, but her eyes remained dry.

I blinked at her, once, twice. Then, using every ounce of effort I had left in my body, I looked up at Gordon, who was staring at Scout and looking pretty impressed. I sucked in a breath.

_Talk about a wake up call. Would you like a side of shame with that?_

With a grimace that was almost entirely hidden behind my mask, I opened my mouth and said the most difficult words that have ever left my lips.

"It... seems as though I... owe you an apology, Commissioner."

The room went entirely still as Gordon's gaze snapped to meet mine. We stood like that for a moment, before he gave me a single, slow nod. I still didn't like him, but I would stop openly disrespecting him. Probably.

"I give you my word that I'm not going in there to kill Matchstick." I said quietly, still holding his gaze.

He nodded again, seeming to believe me instantly. I wondered what about me made him trust me like that. Surely that couldn't have been all he needed to avoid that confrontation? Surely my word didn't mean that much to him? The look in Blake's eye told me it did.

"Do you want me to come with you?" the detective with endless blue eyes asked, handing me a small silver key, and I shook my head at him.

"I need to do this alone."

Gordon seemed to understand and stepped aside as I strode past him, ready to be away from this situation.

"She's in the last door on the right," he called after me, and I held up my good arm in acknowledgement before disappearing down the hallway.

My blood thrummed with anticipation as my eyes caught sight of the door at the very end. She was in there, the traitor who had laughed at Stitches' death, and I quickened my pace, putting a hand to the vial of fear toxin in my pocket.

_I wonder what her scream sounds like. _

The thought made me slam to a halt outside her door, heart pounding. I had sounded like... _him_. It was enough to make me nauseated. Releasing the vial, I slid my hand out of my pocket and ran it down my jeans, trying to get him out of my head. I was not a monster; I would _not_ use that toxin on her.

No matter how tempting it might have been.

Hands trembling, I pushed the key into the lock and turned the doorknob.

_Here goes nothing. _

Inhaling deeply, I quickly pushed the door open. I found myself in a small eight-by-ten-foot storage room, with a cot pushed up against the far wall and a rickety chair in the back corner. Next to it was a styrofoam tray that looked like it had once held food, beside an empty styrofoam cup. The space had been cleared of all shelves and other merchandise, and was illuminated by a single, flickering bulb that dangled from the ceiling. However, that wasn't what caught my eye. What caught my eye was Matchstick, perched on the edge of her cot, her once luxurious chocolate hair now hanging limply around her shoulders and her eyes flashing with something that could only be labelled insanity.

The rush of hatred for her returned, and I curled my hands into fists as she turned her gaze on me. Fear flickered there, hot and bright, masked quickly – almost effortlessly, I was nearly impressed – by condescending amusement.

"Matchstick." I growled, carefully shutting the door behind me and placing the key in my pocket. Her eyes followed the movement briefly before coming back up to rest on my face.

"Don't call me that. I never liked those ridiculous names anyway. My name is Lacey."

I couldn't shake the thought that the last time I had heard her voice, she was taunting me about being unable to save Stitches and the fact that she believed the Batman had abandoned us.

And then all my good intentions of not killing her flew out of my head.

**A/N: So I have a job now, what's your excuse? I will be holding the next chapter hostage until I get a minimum of fifteen reviews on this one, which shouldn't be too much of a problem since this is the longest chapter I've written on this site ever. And also, _TAKE MY POLL_. :) All will be explained next chapter, so I hope you enjoyed!**

**I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "Landscape", by the brilliant and beautiful Florence and the Machine, whose musical talent is unparalleled. **

**You guys, **Amai-chan1993**. She is the best, and the entire reason this story doesn't absolutely suck. So do give her virtual treats and whatnot, yes? **

**A special thanks also to: **MockingjayWolf, Nyx811, QuirkyRandomChika, keeleymcgregor213, Deathstroke Terminator, Shadowed-Shikyo, ElfinCleona, RomanticideToxicity, Gina, the random bat, BlueWillow29,** and especially to my new reviewer **dasserk! **Thanks also to everyone who favorited or alerted! **

**Remember, I'm holding the next chapter hostage until I get fifteen reviews! Come on, with the number of hits I'm getting a chapter that can't be too hard! (Ramblers are my favorite, so feel free!)**

**Sincerely,**

**Starcrier. **


	15. The Traitor

**For Your Entertainment**

_On my knees  
__Dim lighted room  
__Thoughts free flow try to consume  
__Myself in this  
__I'm not faithless  
__Just paranoid of getting lost or that I might lose  
__Ignorance is bliss cherish it  
__Pretty neighborhoods  
__You learn too much to hold  
__Believe it not  
__And fight the tears  
__With pretty smiles and lies  
__About the times_

_Chorus Romance says goodnight  
__Close your eyes and I'll close mine  
__Remember you, remember me  
__Hurt the first, the last, between  
__Chorus Romance says goodnight  
__Close your eyes and I'll close mine  
__Remember you, remember me  
__Hurt the first, the last, between_

_Chapter XIV_

_The Traitor_

_She_ had been here. He knew it immediately, instinctively.

Crane absorbed that thought as he stood on the courthouse steps, his hands clasped casually in front of him as he peered down at the destruction that was Main Street. It was littered with the bodies of Bane's men, all of them stripped to their underthings as though they had been set upon by a pack of materialistic piranhas. He noted wryly that he could easily imagine his Songbird doing most of this singlehandedly were it not for her professed aversion to killing.

_**Does she leave a mess **_**everywhere****_ she goes?_** The Scarecrow's errant thought flitted into his mind, and he ignored it with a roll of his shoulders. He didn't have time for his other half just now.

Her presence still lingered, he noted as he watched Bane's men begin to pick through their dead; it was visible in the chaos around him and as prominent as the smell of gun smoke and blood that still hung in the air. It might cause a problem, seeing as how she was no longer supposed to be among the living and he had been the one to escort her to the bay personally. Bane would probably suspect something, if he didn't already. Not that he was concerned. The men who had witnessed what had happened under the bridge had been given an extremely concentrated dose of his toxin and a not-so-subtle threat that more would come if they ever talked once they stopped screaming.

He had enjoyed that, probably a bit too much.

The masked terrorist himself was standing among his dead mercenaries, surveying the scene with an oddly rigid set to his shoulders. Crane supposed if he'd lost that many men to a bunch of _teenagers_ he'd be a bit annoyed as well. That thought brought another into his mind.

_Who_ was killing the men? It was obvious the brats had a hand in it, but his Songbird was far too idealistic to let them wield the weapons themselves. He was certain that display from her two friends on the bridge had been nothing more than a desperate attempt to save their leader, rather than a trend. In fact, men hadn't started turning up dead on these skirmishes until _after_ he'd taken The Maestro. What did that mean? Was it a warning? And if the brats weren't using guns on these attacks, then why take them _and_ the ammo? It didn't make sense, and Crane was getting that niggling sensation in the back of his head, one that told him he was missing a variable without which the equation was impossible to solve. The thought didn't sit well with him.

Ahead of him, on the street, Bane's right hand man – Bartholomew or Barney or something similar – called to his boss and was standing over what looked like a survivor, if the unsteady rise and fall of his chest was any indication. Seemingly intrigued, Bane went to the pair and crouched down, listening to what the man on the ground was saying. After a moment, he straightened and stared briefly off into the middle distance, one of his fists clenched by his side.

_**He doesn't look happy, Johnny-boy. Maybe I should take ov-**_

_I have this under control. _Crane snapped back mentally, watching as Bane's eyes suddenly found him on the steps.

"Come here, Doctor."

Resisting the urge to grit his teeth and ignoring the expletives Scarecrow was furiously screeching into his mind, Crane advanced at a casual saunter, his arms loose by his sides. He _despised_ being summoned like a pet.

"Yes?" he greeted with his typical professional iciness.

Bane surveyed him for a moment with eyes the color of steel, and Crane didn't change his expression, merely held his gaze with a customarily-arched brow. The mercenary may have had incredible strength and an – admittedly fascinating – immunity to pain, but his intellect was nothing compared to Crane's, which knocked the pedestal of superiority Bane believed himself to be on down a few pegs. Without breaking his gaze, the terrorist addressed the man on the ground, who looked to be in considerable agony.

"Tell the good doctor what you just told me."

The man coughed, his nose obviously shattered as blood continued to gush from his face. Further inspection revealed both of his knees to be leaking the crimson substance as well.

_Interesting._

"T-The Maestro – _cough_ – was here. S-she's alive. She was the o-one who at-ttacked me." the man gasped and coughed again, and Crane looked down at him, vaguely disgusted and strangely proud. If he was weak enough to be taken down by an unarmed and sick girl with a bullet wound in one shoulder, – his Songbird was truly a force to be reckoned with – then he deserved his fate.

"That's not possible." he played along, turning his gaze back to the masked man in front of him.

"I was told The Maestro was dead, Doctor. You were present when her sentence was carried out, were you not? A most unusual occurrence for you." Bane's tone wasn't accusatory or angered at all; instead it was flat and as devoid of emotion as his eyes.

Crane shrugged, showing his unconcern.

"I saw her fall through the ice. By all accounts, she _should_ be dead."

"_That's not even a lie." _The memory of the girl's almost-amused voice echoed through his mind, and he fought off a grimace at the sound of the Scarecrow chuckling.

_**She's gotten under your skin good, Johnny-boy.**_

"And the men that were present? They will agree with your story?" Bane asked, cutting off the nasty reply he'd been ready to snap back at his other half. It took every ounce of self-control Crane possessed to keep the smirk off his face at the sound of his question.

"I assure you that they will."

And there it was, that flare of suspicion he'd been expecting to see in the other man's eyes. Crane would have to tread more carefully now.

Bane turned his gaze back to the man lying on the ground, who was, by this point, barely conscious from blood loss.

"The Maestro does not waste her time on frivolous violence; this is extreme for her. Why did she attack you?"

"I s-shot at one of the k-kids next to her. B-black girl, the one who had been w-wearing the mask before she sh-showed up. She just... k-kind of went off." the man slurred, almost inaudible from his prone position.

"Her attachment to her lieutenants is legendary. Did she die? The one you aimed for?" Bane responded calmly, obviously recognizing the description of the girl.

"No. S-she was wea-wearing s-some sort of vest, like the k-kind we wear."

"They are learning." Bane replied, and if this knowledge disturbed him, he did not show it.

"She could have killed me." the man on the ground continued with surprising clarity this time, as though this thought lent him new strength, "She had my own gun aimed straight for my head, and she didn't kill me."

"She thought you had killed her lieutenant and she still spared your life?" Crane couldn't keep the question from leaving his mouth. That was... unexpected. His Songbird was a dark creature at her core; hate and the need for revenge often propelled her to violence. Bane, apparently, didn't see her that way.

"Her idealism is remarkable, if not foolish. Had she killed him, I would be unaware of her survival."

Then it clicked. She was trying to be like the _Batman_. The disgust came back with a vengeance, and he fought to keep the sneer off his face.

_**Her obsession with that flying rodent is going to get her killed before we can get our hands on her.**_

Crane tried not to scowl. That was unacceptable.

"This is becoming a problem, Doctor." Bane's voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he focused once again on the mercenary in front of him. "My informant among her ranks has not reported in days, and now the return of the children's leader tells me she has been compromised. It is my understanding that you have met this Maestro before?"

Crane studied him, wording his answer carefully.

"Briefly, several years ago during my work with The League of Shadows."

"This is what prompted you to accompany her to her sentence." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I wished to study what had changed about her." Not a lie, but not the entire truth either. The truth was that the moment he realized who she was, he'd had no intention of letting her escape him again. Once her idiotic friends began their poor excuse for a rescue, he'd found his moment to catch her. Had she fallen through the ice on her own, he would have fished her out regardless.

Bane's gaze seemed to try and tear him open, to force him to reveal the details he – correctly – suspected lay hidden within. Crane didn't say a word or reveal any discomfort at being scrutinized. It was a trick he'd picked up during his time as a patient in Arkham, one that had served him well over the years. Finally, the terrorist gave a single nod before taking a step forward and lightly poking his forefinger into Crane's chest.

"Find her. Personally. Bring her to me."

Every section of Crane's focus went into keeping the Scarecrow from gaining control and hissing something that would have gotten them both into trouble. His own blood boiling in fury, he tried to prevent his internal struggle from showing on his face. Bane had a deep, refined, foreign-sounding voice. If he screamed, would it still sound refined through the mask?

His lips pursed, he managed a single nod.

"You're the boss."

A glimmer of what looked like satisfaction passed through the other man's normally empty eyes, and Crane's jaw rippled in anger.

"You know, she's a fighter, and she'll do whatever it takes to keep her brats safe. Underestimating her," he couldn't resist adding, gesturing to the chaos around them, "is unwise."

He watched as another emotion flickered as fast as a shooting star through his gaze, and disappeared just as quickly.

_**Look at that, Johnny-boy. Looks like there's some humanity in ol' Banesy after all. **_

Crane could read fear the way others read books, and he saw it in Bane now. He didn't blame him. If The Maestro, a girl who couldn't be far out of her teens, could survive against the odds and come back stronger, how much stronger would the Batman be if he returned? Something made him think the Bat wasn't as dead as Bane had lead everyone to believe.

"We will see." came the mercenary's – infuriatingly calm – reply as he strode away, stopping only at the sound of his lieutenant, who had been silently present during the entirety of their conversation, calling after him.

"What do you want me to do with him, boss?" asked the man, – _Barsad_, that was his name – gesturing to the wounded thug lying at his feet.

For a moment, Bane didn't turn around.

"He failed in his duty. You know what to do."

Crane knew what was going to happen to the man nanoseconds before it did, and he had the barest of seconds to process Bane's final words before the gunshot rang out through the street.

"I do not allow failure, Doctor."

**~DKR~**

"...My name is Lacey."

I couldn't shake the thought that the last time I had heard her voice, she was taunting me about being unable to save Stitches and the fact that she believed the Batman had abandoned us.

And then all my good intentions of not killing her flew out of my head.

For a brief moment, neither Matchstick – Lacey now, I supposed – or I moved in the space of the storage room. My anger swelled like the music of an orchestra with every passing second, coming to a crescendo with alarming speed and throwing me over the edge. In a fraction of an instant I was on her, pinning her to the wall by her throat and hissing in her face. My injuries and sickness meant nothing; they were inconsequential in the wake of my rage.

"Since we've decided to talk about you, let's discuss the fact that you're apparently a suicidal mental patient that got my best medic killed. Let's talk about that."

The traitor lifted her chin, lips pulled back over her teeth in what was either a snarl or a demented grin.

"It was her own fault for getting so close to someone with such a big target on her back. Why'd you let her come with you, _Maestro?_" she hissed unapologetically between gasps for breath, "Why'd you put her in danger? And how does little Scout feel about this? I can't imagine she forgives you, not completely, for letting her big sister die so _violently_."

With a cry of rage I threw her across the room, where she stumbled over the chair and hit the floor.

I was going to kill her, and I was going to use the toxin the entire time.

Ignoring all reason or the voice in my head screaming that this was very, very wrong, I strode to the door and locked it from the inside, making sure we wouldn't be interrupted.

"You don't get to talk about Scout," I hissed, turning back to her as she watched me with wide eyes, "we're talking about you, remember? So let's get back to it. Why join up with Bane?"

"I told you. We need to be purged. Bane is right; this is the only way to get justice."

I clenched my fists and advanced on her, sending a swift kick to her stomach and almost reveling in her cry of pain.

"Do you actually listen to yourself when you talk? _We are all going to die if he wins._ Even you. Tell me you understand this. Why condemn your own people?"

"_My people?_" she screeched suddenly as she crawled to her feet, swaying slightly from her rough landing as she did, "You think _these_ are my people? Where were they the night my family was murdered? What did they do for me when I was left alone? _Nothing!_ They are no more my people than they are yours. They abandoned us both, Maestro; my only question is why you would fight on their side."

I stayed silent, my black gaze tearing into her as anger still roared in my ears. The toxin in my pocket wouldn't be as powerful unless it was in gas form, but if she caught a whiff of the liquid it might scare her _just enough_...

"When this city goes up in smoke," she continued quietly, her voice dangerous, "justice will be served. People will pay, _really_ pay, for their crimes, and I'll..." her voice trailed off as something agonized and terrified and achingly familiar passed through her eyes.

"You'll what?" I snapped, entirely not in the mood for dramatics as my fingers inched towards the vial.

That infuriatingly cocky look reappeared at my tone, and it was all I could do not to hit her as she smirked at me.

"I'll finally get my brother back."

I was momentarily confused, and my hand stilled in it's movement.

"I don't under –"

Oh. _Oh._

I had a horrible feeling I was starting to recognize that look on her face.

"How did he die?" my voice was unconcerned, emotionless, cold. I had lost my mother and had still managed to retain my sanity; I hadn't let her loss twist me into the villain, no matter how easy it may have seemed at one point. Matchstick – _Lacey_ – would find no sympathy here. Stitches' death was still too fresh.

A fierce snarl – there was no doubt of it this time – touched her lips and she whirled, her hair flying crazily around her as she began to pace almost manically in the small room.

"He, along with my mother, was murdered by Salvatore Maroni over some money my dad owed a couple of his pet loan sharks to pay our rent. When my dad couldn't pay on time, Maroni and a bunch of thugs showed up and demanded it in person. You don't borrow money, no matter how small, from a mob boss and not pay up on the deadline. He tried to use me and my brother as leverage, but I was able to get away, and I went to the police. By the time they got there, he and my mother..." she gasped, as though physically pained by her story, before continuing, "they were already dead and my father was gone." she hissed, dragging her hand through her lank hair.

I showed no sign of empathy or concern at her story. I wouldn't let myself feel it, not for her.

"A few days later," Lacey continued, "our savings account was emptied out of nowhere, all two hundred dollars of it, and my mother's life insurance just... disappeared. We found my father's body in an alley the same day. They..." she gasped again, emotion thick in her voice, "they had to use dental records to identify him because... I couldn't. I didn't even recognize him, my own _father_. And you wanna know what happened to Maroni after I gave my statement to the police? _Nothing_. There wasn't even an _investigation_, at least not a serious one. He didn't so much as pay a fine."

I gathered that this must have happened after the Narrows incident but before the Joker, when the Batman was still cleaning up the corruption in the city.

"So you hate cops," I said, sounding bored despite the empathy I didn't want to experience starting to take hold in my throat, "but why the rest of Gotham? Why the Batman?"

She continued to pace, her movements becoming more and more erratic and her breathing labored.

"I went from foster home to foster home after that, each more horrible than the next. Every house left scars, whether physical or mental. The people you're fighting so tirelessly to save? They aren't saints. I've seen their dark sides, and they all look out for number one. The ones like us, the ones left alone, get trampled. But I think you know all of this already. You've been alone for longer than I have, haven't you?" The last part of her speech was spoken with mocking derision, and I fought to restrain myself from flying at her.

"The Batman champions people like us! He fights for the ones who can't stand on their own! How could you ever –?"

"_Because he. Never. Came!_" she screamed, the sound echoing in the small space and making my sensitive ears ring, "My brother was _ten_ when they slit his throat on our living room floor, and I can't even tell you the things they did to my mother! Where was your precious _Batman_ then? Why didn't he come?" she spat, suddenly very close to my face.

I blinked, and everything narrowed down to one very specific point in time when the world had collapsed around me and my mother was nothing more than another body lying in her own blood, and an angel swept me up and held me close and asked my name...

_It could have been me._

If the Batman hadn't come, hadn't saved me from the demons in orange suits and then again once I discovered my dead mother, telling me I wasn't alone, I would have ended up _just like Lacey._

All of the fight and the fury left me, and I stepped away, already regretting my previous drive to kill her. Not because I no longer wanted to, not because Stitches no longer needed to be avenged, but because I was just like her. Our paths had merely diverged with our encounter – or lack thereof – of the Batman. He was everything.

"When Bane showed up," she continued, quieter now, "I had my chance to see justice served and see my brother again. I knew I had to help him, so I joined you and fed him intel. There was a time when I would have regretted seeing Stitches die. But we're all going to burn, Maestro. What does it matter if one or two of us go early?"

I shook my head at her.

"That's where you're wrong, Lacey. The only ones who are gonna burn are Bane and his Goons. The Batman is coming back, and this time he'll save us all. No one will get left in the dust."

She bared her teeth at me.

"A sweet sentiment, but entirely false. Someone is _always_ left behind."

I could see that she had been too far gone for far too long to be reached or convinced of anything else. And in that moment, I pitied her more than I hated her.

"If you honestly believe that, then I can't help you. All I can do is give you the one thing you want most." I whispered as she met my eyes, and for a moment I saw stunning clarity there as she nodded at me, knowing what I was going to do with her. Her blue gaze filled with brief gratitude, but in a nanosecond it was gone, replaced once again with lifeless insanity.

I turned away from her and towards the door, wanting to rid myself of the pity I was unaccustomed to feeling.

"I hope you find what you're looking for, Lacey."

As the bolt clicked open and the knob turned in my fist, she called out to me one last time.

"I hope you do too, Maestro."

~DKR~

I had to stop a moment in the hallway to collect my thoughts, wanting so desperately to ignore the sympathy and sadness welling in my throat.

It was the first time I had ever questioned whether or not the Batman would actually return, and it rocked me to my core. Until that point, all I had ever known from my angel was faithfulness, always returning right when he was needed most, always swooping in with his dark wings and saving the day, always saving the ones who couldn't defend themselves. But Lacey's family hadn't been saved. Even though I knew he couldn't possibly be everywhere at once, and that had been a busy year for him, it still stung to know my hero couldn't be one for everybody.

I didn't realize I had leaned against the wall and slid to the floor until I heard a familiar voice above me say my name.

_Blake. _

I looked up at him, taking in his handsome face and deep blue eyes, and felt something that was almost like affection stir within me. I found this reaction to be really, really weird, so I did what I do best and stamped the emotion out immediately.

"What?" I asked, massaging my temples. It had been a long day, and my shoulder was suddenly killing me. I felt sick.

"You don't look so good," he commented as he helped me to my feet, and I grudgingly allowed myself to lean against his body as we walked back towards the kitchen, "I was just about to come check on you. What happened in there?"

"I didn't kill her, if that's what you're asking." I snapped defensively, irritated with myself for almost breaking the Code again. For _wanting_ to in the first place.

He looked down at me, surprised.

"I didn't say you did. I just wondered what's got you so upset."

I leaned more heavily against him, just... _needing_ to, for some unexplainable reason.

"The world sucks, Blake. It just does."

He was quiet as we rounded the last corner, and for a moment I thought the conversation was over when he spoke again.

"John."

"What?"

"Call me John. Blake's too impersonal."

I raised an eyebrow at him, not that he could see it behind my mask.

"Are we... personal?"

"You tell me."

I looked up, studying him and wondering for the nth time why he freaking cared so much about me, why he even bothered.

"Fine," I replied, averting my gaze, "but don't expect me to return the favor."

"So can I give you a nickname then?"

I scoffed and pushed him away from me.

"Try it, and I swear by the soul I don't have, I will snap your neck." I was being entirely serious, not needing another "Songbird" scenario, but he didn't seem to take it that way and laughed instead. I discovered I liked the sound.

_Ugh. Too many emotions for one day. I think I'm going to lobotomize myself. That ought to solve the problem nicely. _

We entered the cafeteria to find only Gordon and Scout remaining, talking quietly over a map of the city on the table between them. Occasionally she would glance at him as he spoke, a certain softness on her face, before gesturing to a spot on the paper with her good arm and refuting his point cleanly.

_They work well together._ The thought made me distinctly uncomfortable.

She looked up at us as we entered, a flicker of her old brightness in her eyes.

"Hey guys." she greeted, adjusting her ponytail as Gordon turned to look at us. I wanted to smack the knowing look off his face as he took in how close Blake – _John_ – and I were standing. I quickly moved away.

"How did it go?" the commissioner questioned, and I had to swallow back a number of sarcastic replies until I found one that wouldn't upset Scout or the fragile truce I'd actually had to _apologize_ to set up earlier.

I grimaced.

"Worse than expected."

"What are you going to do with her?" he asked, and I met his gaze evenly.

"Give her to Bane."

Silence through the room.

"Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, she'll tell him everything she knows." Scout spoke up, and I nodded at her.

"And she doesn't know anything they aren't gonna eventually figure out on their own, if they haven't already." I replied.

"Maestro... you know he's gonna kill her, right?" Blake – _John_ – stated, watching me carefully.

"If he kills her, that's on him. I'm giving her what she wants." I said softly, recalling her sadness as she spoke of her brother, "I'll have my boys blindfold her and drop her at the courthouse."

Gordon shook his head.

"Too risky. They're looking for kids down there. We'll send a couple of plainclothes to make the drop."

I nodded at him gratefully, too tired to argue, and sat down heavily in one of the chairs, scribbling something on a piece of paper and handing it to him.

"Make sure she's found with this. The sooner we get this over with, the better."

Taking the note I'd written with a quizzical look, he turned to go, but I called after him a final time, remembering Scrap's request.

"Do you... do you think you could spare a medic? We're swamped with injuries and with Stitches gone..." I murmured the last bit, rubbing the back of my neck as Scout looked away.

He looked... grieved, all of a sudden, which was weird, but he nodded all the same.

"I'll send one your way."

I gave him a tight smile to show my gratefulness and he stepped out of the room, already murmuring encoded instructions into his walkie-talkie. John made some excuse about needing to go on his rounds, but not before making sure I promised to go back to my apartment to take my antibiotics and rewrap my shoulder.

I agreed, having no intention of doing any such thing anytime in the near future, and he left, leaving me alone with my head of recon.

I turned to her, ready to start talking, only to find her bent over the plans again, murmuring quietly under her breath and writing in that mysterious notebook of hers.

I couldn't keep the wry, affectionate smile off my lips.

"Hey, kid." I called, getting her attention, and she glanced up at me, a preoccupied look on her face.

"Come take a walk with me." I gestured towards the door, and she studied me quizzically for a moment before nodding.

"Sure, Maestro."

I stood up, allowing her to exit ahead of me, and we both headed back to base by unspoken agreement. For a little while, neither of us said anything, choosing to just relax in the other's presence. I realized after a moment that I had missed her as much as I had Savvy in the days I had been gone.

"You still mad at me about earlier?" I asked after a bit, batting at her ponytail playfully.

She shook her head, jerking away from my touch with a small grin.

"Nah, not really. I just wanted you to see what a good man he really is."

It took everything I had to bite back a scoff.

"He's been taking care of you?"

"Yeah. He said he promised Stitches he would take care of both of us, but since she's not here..." she lifted her chin a little higher as she said her sister's name, probably to mask the unmistakable catch in her voice.

Quietly, I reached up with my good arm and unlatched the pendant from around my neck, halting our walk. Her eyes widened when she saw the object in my outstretched hand.

"Where did you get that?"

She took it from me and cradled it in her palm like it was the most precious thing in the world and someone was about to take it from her.

"Your sister gave it to me, right before she died." I said quietly.

For a moment, all she did was stare at the trinket, letting the chain slip over and around her fingers gently, lovingly.

"I thought I would never see it again. When they brought back her body without it I... I thought it had been looted. Dad gave it to her on her twelfth birthday. She never took it off." she whispered.

I didn't know what to say. Guilt slammed into me again and again, reminding me that I had been _right there_ and couldn't protect her, couldn't keep her from dying, and Scout was alone because of it.

"Her name was Violet. She told me not to call her that anymore after we joined you." she continued, running her index finger over the letter in her palm.

I raised a brow, surprised. Names, _real_ names, were something not willingly shared in The Young, because it housed the only thing some people had left: identity. A life filled with school and families and parties and safety, and to reveal it was to reveal the most hidden part of yourself.

It was why I would never tell anyone _my_ real name.

Touched that she would so simply reveal her sister's secret with me, I smiled a bit.

"That's pretty."

She nodded, brushing away a lone tear that had slid down her cheek.

"She hated it, but I always thought it was so much nicer than mine. _Riley_. Who names a girl 'Riley', anyway?"

I froze, completely caught off-guard. It was one thing to share the name of a dead girl, but quite another to so willingly reveal your own. For a second, I couldn't say anything, still reeling from the gravity of what she had just told me. It was a sign of the deepest trust, something I seriously doubted she had told Gordon. The thought probably shouldn't have pleased me as much as it did.

"I like Riley. It fits." I said once I regained my voice, and she looked up at me sadly.

"Not anymore."

I nodded, showing her I understood, – more than she would ever know – and we resumed walking. The entire purpose of this conversation was to convey that I was there for her, that I wasn't leaving her again, and she seemed to understand that as we continued on in companionable, if not slightly downcast, silence.

"Do you like Blake?" she asked out of nowhere when we were almost to the base, and I nearly tripped over my own feet.

_John, _my mind automatically corrected, before I promptly told it to shut up and turned my attention back to Scout.

"What do you mean?" I asked coolly.

"Well, he was really worried while you were gone, and you act like you hate him less than the others, and he makes sure you take your medicine even though you aren't, so I wondered if something was going on between you two."

I couldn't help but ponder how skewed her view of my values must be, that the fact that I despised a cop less than I normally despised his brethren was an encouraging sign for our budding friendship – if that's even what it was.

"We called a truce. That's all."

"That's it?" she looked marginally disappointed, and I recalled suddenly how young she was, to still believe in the possibility of love in the romantic sense. Love like that was giving someone the power to destroy you, and then trusting them not to, and I didn't have that kind of faith in humanity. Anyone who did was either an idiot or far, far too young to be involved a war.

"Were you expecting more?" I asked, and she must have recognized the warning in my tone because she immediately attempted to backpedal.

"No! I mean, maybe, if you let yourself... Stop looking at me like that, he's a good man and I just think he might like you, that's all! Sheesh."

"He's a cop, Scout, which, by extension, makes him a moron. Just because I called a truce with him doesn't mean I enjoy his presence."

_Liar, you totally think he's hot, _my mind singsonged, and I shushed it again, wondering when I had suddenly developed Crane's dual mentality.

"If you say so." she muttered, kicking at a loose pebble in her path before turning back to me, still looking inquisitive. I groaned internally.

"Do you trust him, then? You have to if you've called a truce, right?"

I stiffened, never slowing my stride as our base loomed into view, my mind racing. Did I trust John? Well, I obviously trusted him some degree if I was willing to use his first name or fall asleep while knowing he was still in my apartment. He had been nothing but open with me, about his parents, his life, his intentions to help me and my Young, and I realized I really had no reason _not_ to.

And then the most basic, primal part of me, the part that had seen what people were capable of and how much darkness was really in their hearts, screamed at me that letting him get close was wrong and that he had to have a motive somewhere, hidden behind that kind smile and those fascinating eyes. He couldn't be what he said he was because no one but my angel was that inherently good, and someday he would want something that I couldn't give him and then he would leave, the same way all men did.

"_...I'd bet _anything_ it's _men_ you don't trust..."_ Crane's voice echoed perfectly through my mind, and I realized with a quiet gasp of fear that he had been right.

"I will not now or ever trust John Blake, Scout." I replied softly, not meeting her shocked gaze, "And I would warn you not to either."

She opened her mouth to reply, but we were already at the front entrance of the base, and I waved her in ahead of me.

"Go get some rest, Scout. It's been a long day and you've not been keeping off your arm like you should."

She studied me a moment before complying, grumbling under her breath as she did so.

I watched her go and shook my head affectionately, before following her inside and taking in the scene. Savvy was still hard at work, directing kids and answering questions and scribbling on a map all at the same time. Jazz was here too, looking as though he was in-between supply runs. And in the back corner, Scrap was watching with tears in her eyes as a few boys hauled a body bag solemnly between them and carried it out of the warehouse, headed for the bay.

The boy from earlier had died, and the realization hit me like a punch to the stomach.

_Mother in heaven, watch over his soul._

Moving on autopilot, I hunted down The Score, grabbed a pen, and shut myself in an upper office, systematically drawing a line that seemed heartbreakingly final through the names of those who had died or, in one case, probably would very soon. Stitches, whose name I now knew to be Violet, was first, followed by Matchstick, otherwise known as Lacey, as well as the other four who had died on the raid. These four had no siblings, and thus no way of discovering their real names. I made a point to try to do so whenever I could in the future, because once this war was over I had every intention of seeing their sacrifices honored.

My morbid task completed, I sat back in my chair, trying to clear my head. I needed that medicine, and soon; I'd have to make a trip to my apartment, regardless of how unsafe it was to be out on the streets as often as I was. I'd grab some supplies while I was there and hole up here for a few days while I recuperated and reassured my Young of my continued presence.

For a moment, I was entirely still, listening to the sound of my rebels moving back and forth and the hum of the wind against the window behind me. The toxin vials put an odd weight against my thigh, and I momentarily considered them.

That unclear plan from earlier was resurfacing at the front of my mind, becoming slightly more defined as the seconds passed, and I stood from my chair, suddenly and unexpectedly having at least a small part of it figured out. I needed to find Jazz.

Quickly, I exited the office and located him at the entrance of the warehouse, prepared to go out on another supply run with a group of older boys and girls.

"Jazz!" I called, getting his attention, and he turned expectantly to look at me. "I need your help." With a quizzical glance, he nodded, waving his group on out the door.

"What's up?" he asked as I lead him away to a spot where we wouldn't be overheard.

Without breaking his gaze, I reached into my pocket and withdrew the toxin, still in its protective wrapping.

"Can you make something that would oxidize this? Like a spray can, or something?"

His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, an expression that wouldn't have been out of place on a dying fish.

"Is that what I think it is?"

"That's irrelevant. Can you oxidize it or can't you?"

Glancing from the object to my face and back again, he took it in his hand and studied it carefully.

"Probably, yeah."

I knew from experience the antidote had to be injected, not inhaled, so I didn't bother taking it out. Besides, the antitoxin was far less dangerous in my hands than its counterpart was, anyway.

"Then I need you to do it."

He nodded with the air of someone who didn't like what he was agreeing to and turned away with a sigh, though I could already see the mechanic in him mentally working this puzzle with dizzying speed.

I turned to go back to my apartment, somehow feeling as though the first part of my plan had just clicked into place.

So why did I have this unease?

**~DKR~**

"Boss!"

Bane turned calmly at the sound of Barsad entering the courthouse lobby, raising a mildly questioning eyebrow at the sight of the figure, bound and hooded, who was being dragged by his side.

"Looks like the rebels left a present for you." his lieutenant said in his habitually quiet way, tossing the person at Bane's booted feet.

He knew who it was immediately; he had been expecting something like this to happen, after all. Though, the fact that The Maestro was letting him handle it was an interesting twist. Given the rage he had witnessed from her on the day she was taken, he would have wagered it would have been her hand that struck the killing blow.

This development, combined with the fact that she had let one of his men live during her attack earlier that day, was certainly intriguing.

He turned his gaze from the entirely still person on the floor back to his second.

"Get me Dr. Crane."

The man nodded and left the room, leaving him and the prisoner alone. He surveyed her for a silent moment, watching her torso expand and contract with each shuddering breath that was drawn. A note was pinned to her shirt front, graffitied with music notes and bat symbols. He leaned closer. The message itself – a mere two words – was barely legible.

_Your move._

_~M. _

"It seems you have overestimated your abilities." he spoke quietly, ripping the note away from her person and crushing it in his fist. Her body tensed and then relaxed with lightning speed, but not quickly enough for it to escape him.

"I know you are conscious. Pretending otherwise is pointless."

There was no reply; it was hard to say whether it was out of fear or defiance. Considering who he was dealing with, it was probably both.

"You _summoned_ me?" the chilly voice of the twisted doctor came from behind him, dripping with condescension as it always was, and he turned to see Barsad following not far behind. The first man's eyes lighted on the quivering girl at his feet, but other than a brief flash of curiosity his expression was blank.

"Yes. I believe what this girl has to say could be useful to you in your search for The Maestro." he replied calmly, crouching down and jerking the black bag off of her head with a flourish.

The girl called Matchstick squinted up at him, her blue eyes attempting to adjust to the light. She did not look well. Her face was pale and drawn, her hair dirty, and her skin sported multiple bruises. It appeared The Maestro had taken some revenge after all.

"Bane," she greeted with a nod of her head and the briefest flash of her signature cocky grin, "good to see you again."

He regarded her quietly.

"What happened?"

"They caught me. Obviously." she snapped, pulling with irritation against her bonds even as she refused to make eye contact with him. Instead, she looked at Crane with a strange glint in her eyes. He returned her gaze levelly.

"You assured me this was impossible. Was this before or after The Maestro returned to you?" his voice was deadly calm, and her shoulders tensed in obvious fear. Behind him, he heard the doctor shift his weight, no doubt suddenly interested.

"Before. The little sister of the girl you killed discovered me, and Maestro's lieutenants gave me to Gordon."

This piece of news both surprised and interested him.

"She is working with the commissioner?"

The girl nodded.

"They'd made some sort of alliance before you caught her. The Young and the police have now officially joined forces."

He was about to reply when he found himself cut off by Crane's audible scoff.

"That's impossible. She distrusts adults, particularly police, particularly _male_ police. She wouldn't have considered going to them for help."

At this news, Bane turned to him, a single eyebrow raised. That nagging seed of suspicion that informed him the doctor knew more about The Maestro than he was telling had resurfaced, this time stronger. Unruffled, Crane stared back at him with an enigmatic smirk.

"What? I _am_ a psychologist. I gathered that much from her reputation."

It made sense, but for him to seem so _certain_ of it... Yes, the doctor knew far more than he was letting on. He'd have to have him tailed.

"She didn't go to them." the girl continued, rolling her eyes as though it should have been obvious, "They came to her. Some rookie detective found us and begged her like a lovesick puppy. The man has it bad, take it from me."

He might have imagined the half-growl, half-throat clear that came from Crane's general direction, but he ignored it in favor of the more pressing matter at hand.

"And then? After the commissioner locked you away?"

"The Maestro came back, what did you expect? Unless you actually _see_ the bullet entering her skull, she's never gonna really be dead, and even then it's probably still a toss-up. She's irritatingly resilient that way."

He stalked around behind her, watching her form tense again.

"Where are The Young hiding?"

She lifted her chin, but did not turn to look at him.

"I don't know. They would have switched bases after they discovered me. It's protocol."

"Where is the commissioner, then?"

"I don't know, I never saw."

"The Maestro, what of her?"

"I don't know. I think she's injured, but it looks like she's healing well."

Bane shifted so he was standing directly behind her. She was visibly trembling now, and the doctor was watching her with a enraptured expression on his face. He suddenly removed his glasses as though he no longer needed them, regarding her closely.

"You seem to know very little, for a traitor." Bane responded.

She did not reply but her body shook all the harder, and he imagined she knew what was about to happen. Oddly, she didn't seem resistant, she hadn't tried to plead or beg for another chance or even her life, she had merely told him her answers and waited.

She was looking at Crane oddly, and he was looking right back, and a challenge suddenly seemed to pass between them.

**~DKR~**

The girl _knew_.

Encased inside Scarecrow's mind – he had taken control at the sight of the child traitor's fear – Crane swore roundly.

Somehow, she _knew_ he'd been the one to take Maestro from the bay, and for some reason she wasn't telling Bane. Why? What possible purpose would that serve? Her eyes spoke of a raging insanity, an extreme mental unbalance; he'd seen it often enough in Arkham, after all, so maybe that was the reason – that there simply wasn't one.

_Or maybe there _is_ a motive_, he thought, seeing the briefest flash of calm in her eyes. The girl knew her fate, knew what was coming and had known it, probably, for quite a while. Despite her attempts to bring down The Young, he suspected she harbored some contempt for Bane as well. Perhaps, in her twisted little world, this was the part of her that still harbored a conscience reacting. Seeming to read his thoughts, the girl spoke again, her voice quivering in delicious fear but her tone unmistakable.

"I don't think you'll end up winning, Bane." she said quietly, as though this news was horrifying even to her, "Everybody follows Maestro because they trust and love her; she's like the Batman reincarnated. But you? They _fear_ you, and fear can only get someone so far. They're undivided, you're not. And, to be perfectly honest, watching you wrestle to keep control must be pretty amusing for her. As much as I want this city to burn, I think it's pretty funny too. You're not invulnerable, Bane."

_Ah._ That was why she wasn't telling him, then. She thought internal conflict would cause problems for the mercenary.

There was deadly silence for a moment, and Scarecrow nearly pouted and stormed back into his mind at the sight of her so unafraid all of a sudden, when Bane spoke again.

"They will not love her so much when the body count rises; instead they will blame her. Love is a fleeting thing among youth, and can be used to control or divide them, should I so choose. As for my own men, betrayal is met with a fate worse than death. They know this and refuse to deviate from my path because of it."

_**He really doesn't know **_**anything**_** about fear, does he, Johnny-boy? He doesn't know we can play on fear like a fiddle. It only works as a controlling factor until they fear something else more.**_

His hands were on her neck now, and Scarecrow relished the renewed terror in her gaze as she locked eyes with him. She did not cry, she did not beg, she did not react at all other than to sit, and quake, and wait.

_She anticipates death but fears it just the same. Fascinating._

_**Her fear isn't as pretty as our Songbird's.**_ Scarecrow complained, and Crane was surprised when he found himself agreeing. It wasn't like either of them, particularly his darker half, to be picky.

"It seems your usefulness has run its course, my dear." the mercenary said, his grip tightening. The girl's eyes flickered closed and her breathing slowed. Crane saw the exact moment she was ready to die, watched it in the sudden relaxation of her muscles.

"I'm coming home, Lucas." she whispered, almost inaudibly in the dismal emptiness of the lobby.

And then there was a twist and a sickening crack, and her body fell to the floor with a quiet thud.

The traitor Matchstick was no more.

**_A/N: Job. I have a job. Also, we gots reviews! It was a bluff, I apologize; I didn't actually intend on holding this one hostage at all except life got in the way, so... Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to TAKE MY POLL. Please and thank you!_**

**_I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The song is "So I Thought" by __Flyleaf. _**

**_As always, a huge round of applause for my beta, _**_Amai-chan1993_**_, who, obviously, is brilliant. I am utterly lost without her, and it means a lot that some of you have complimented her as well. She does a remarkable job on this, seriously. _**

_**A special thanks also to:**__ Nyx811, Eva Sirico, ForgeandGred4Ever, QuirkyRandomChika, guttercrow, takara410, blackdye, simplesonnets, Top Hats and Other Items, MockingjayWolf, Miss Singing in the Rain, Deathstroke Terminator, angel-unknown, the random bat, ElfinCleona, thedemonandtheangel, Moka-girl, keeleymcgregor213__**, and anyone else who reviewed, favorited or alerted! You guys are awesome! **_

_**Don't forget to review!**_

_**Sincerely,**_

_**Starcrier. **_


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